


An Uncommon Witness

by Mangaka_chan



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 138,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2252712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangaka_chan/pseuds/Mangaka_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duck lived a quiet life until she witnessed a mob murder. Now caught up in a tale involving a persistent detective, a dangerous mobster, and a beautiful actress, will she ever return to her quiet life again? Or will the mob catch up to her first? An AU set in the the Roaring Twenties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This story started after I posted a 1920's AU fanart on the Princess Tutu LJ community. A lot of people liked the idea of the PT cast in a Jazz Age story so I decided to try my own hand at the idea. Some of the character names I use will be different from the official version (Ahiru vs Duck, for example) because it makes more sense to me to use the English name rather than the Japanese name in this setting. Also, I will be assigning ethnic identities to the characters to better reflect the historical setting (New York City, 1924) and to explain some of the more unusual names the characters have. As such, some references to racial prejudice may be made, but they will be done so in a purely historical context.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Princess Tutu_.

* * *

It was a clear but chilly night as Duck walked her usual eight blocks back to her apartment from the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop where she worked. Under the pale street lights, motor cars cruised past her, the smoke from their tail pipes and the steam drifting up from manhole covers coated the street in a grayish mist.

Duck sniffled at the cold and shifted the brown paper bag in her arms. Inside were her week's worth of groceries, a load consisting of three apples, a loaf of bread, two heads of slightly wilted lettuce, and a can of sardines. She had been late to work again because the alarm clock was broken and Mr. Kotin, her employer, had chewed her out for being tardy. So, she had to work late to make up the hours in order to get her full paycheck and didn't get out until nearly 8 o' clock. After closing up shop she had rushed to the grocer down the street, and managed to buy her weekly grocery supply before the store closed. Of course, by now all the fresh vegetables have been sold and she was left with the wilted lettuce no one else wanted.

_Oh well,_ Duck thought to herself and looked inside the bag. _At least I was able to get bread this time. Good thing I asked Mrs. Ebine at the bakery to save a loaf for me, or else I would have to eat cereal for a week!_

Lost in her thoughts, Duck didn't notice the two women walking towards her and bumped right into them.

"Wah!" The unexpected impact caused Duck to let go of her bag, sending the contents clattering to the ground. "Ah, I'm sorry!" she said to the women before kneeling down and picking up the scattered grocery items.

"Geez, watch where you're walking, will you!" one of the women said as she brushed her arm, which Duck noticed as she glanced up, was clad in an expensive looking fur coat.

"I'm really sorry, I was just thinking about things, a-and I wasn't paying attention—!" Duck apologized again, not knowing what else to say to the well-dressed woman.

"Oh come on Annie, a little bump ain't gonna do anything to that coat of yours! Or are you looking for an excuse to get Danny to buy you another one?" The woman's friend let out a sharp little laugh. "You're scaring the poor girl! Why, her braid's as stiff as a Jack Russell's tail because of you!"

The friend with the expensive coat huffed as the two women continued on their way down the street, their chattering voices gradually dissolving into the noise of the city street. Duck's hand paused before she put the last of the vegetables back into the dented bag. Standing up she pulled her hat down over the short, red curls at the base of her neck, leaving only her long braid in plain view. That done, she inspected her bag again but noticed she was one apple short.

"Where did it go?" Duck looked around but saw no sign of the missing fruit.

To her right was an alley that dipped down at an incline. It was possible the apple had rolled down this way but the looming darkness in the alley made Duck hesitate. Her grandpa used to tell her stories about monsters that would eat children who wander into the night when she was little, and despite being 19 and an adult, the dark was still as imposing as it was when she was a child.

_One lost apple isn't such a big deal, right?_ She turned to walk away but the thought of wasting food (and thus her hard earned paycheck) pulled her back and toward the mouth of the alleyway. Maybe it didn't roll too far down, she told herself as her blue eyes scanned the trash littered ground. Unluckily for her, the bright gleam of the apple appeared midway down the narrow lane, resting against the bottom of a small pile of discarded wooden crates.

"Today just isn't my day," she muttered and sighed before taking a deep breath as she ventured into the dim alley.

Within a few steps she was beside the fruit and no monster jumped out at her from the dark. Feeling relieved, Duck smiled to herself as she bent down to pick up the apple, when suddenly, a loud bang sent her eyes shooting back up. A few yards in front of her a man burst out from a doorway and made a mad dash for the other end of the alley. He froze when a car pulled up and screeched to a halt and three men emerged from the vehicle.

Duck had no idea what was going on and stared at the scene, bewildered. But what she saw next sent a chill down her spine. Two of the men were dressed completely in black, the rims of their black hats shading their eyes. Each held a shot gun in one hand as they surrounded the petrified man who back his way into the wall. At the sight of the guns she ducked down behind the crates, dropping the bag once again, but this time she didn't even notice as her eyes were fixed on what was unfolding before her.

As Duck watched from behind the crates, her presence hidden by the boxes and the building's shadow, the third man walked forward from the car. Duck's eyes widened when she saw him. This man, unlike the others, was dressed all in white. A coat was draped over the shoulders of his finely cut suit and a cream colored scarf around his neck swayed as he leisurely walked up between the two men. It was his face though, that struck Duck the most. Curls of hair as pale as his coat framed a sweet, handsome face. In the dark she couldn't see the color of his eyes, but his expression noted a touch of detached amusement.

It wasn't until the man in white spoke that Duck snapped out of her trance and the situation she had found herself in came tumbling back over her. She almost gasped aloud but her hands covered her mouth in time to stifle the sound.

"You made a very unfortunate decision, Al." The man in white clasped his gloved hands in front of him and offered the frightened man a reprimanding smile. "A made-man like yourself, you should know what happens when bad decisions are made. The boss found out about you being a tattletale and this is his order," he said calmly, but the other man doesn't seem to have heard a word he said, instead he's gasping and crying, his hands hopelessly groping at the brick wall behind him, trying to push himself as far into it as he can.

"No please…please! Principe!* Don't kill me! I-I didn't…I didn't mean to—!"

"It doesn't matter, Alphonse. What's done is done. And really," the man in white unfolded his hands and patted the shoulders of the men next to him, "you should be thankful for this. The alternative would have been far less pleasant for you. At least like this, you won't feel a thing." With that, the man called Principe held up his hands and at the same time, the two men in black raised their guns.

Duck instinctively shrank away, covering her ears and shut her eyes as the deafening sound of shot gun fire filled her ears and the sound of an abruptly smothered scream disappeared behind the veil of bullets. She kept her hands over her ears but even after several long minutes the ringing would not stop. She did not dare open her eyes and look, her stomach twisting at the thought of what lies not far from her.

She had no idea how long she sat there like that, huddled in the corner with her legs to her chest. But as the ringing noise in her ear finally began to fade and her mind gradually woke to the sensation of the late autumn cold nipping at her finger tips, she vaguely recognized the sound of a car, followed by the slam of a car door being shut and hurried footsteps.

"Damn it! They got him!" a voice cursed from that end of the alley.

At the sound of the new voice Duck opened her eyes, her vision blurry from tears she didn't know she had shed. She must've made a sound then because the voice snapped, "Who's there!" followed by the sound of quickly approaching footsteps.

Duck's heart felt like it was going to jump out of her throat as panic flooded her mind. _Oh my god, what am I going to do!?_ But before she could get beyond that brief thought, the footsteps came to a stop and she looked up into a pair of sharp green eyes.

Duck could do little but blink, too shaken and surprised to do anything else. The person with the green eyes appeared surprised as well, but it was soon replaced with a rush of words. "Are you alright? Did you see what happened?"

"I—" Duck found she couldn't find her voice, didn't even know where she was for a second, so completely overwhelmed by what she had just experience. Instead she stared at the man, and noticed he was wearing a dark pinstripe suit with a black or dark blue tie. Unruly locks of dark hair peeped out from under his fedora; the rest of his hair was tied into a pony tail that had slipped over his shoulder. Following the line of his arm down, only then did Duck realize the man had his hand on her shoulder.

Seeing her blank state, he shook her a little and repeated his questions impatiently, "Did you see what happened? Were you here the whole time?"

Those pointed questions snapped Duck back into reality as she recalled the man in the white suit, the people with the shot guns, the person who had run from the building only to be cornered, and what was—had—happened to him. She didn't want to think about that, didn't want to visit those memories, so fresh and raw in her mind. But the man would not relent and he shook her again, harder this time.

"Hey, say something!"

At this gesture a flare of anger welled up in Duck. Who was this man who kept yelling at her? Couldn't he tell she was upset? Hoping answering him will get her some peace, she yelled back, "Yes, I did! I saw it, alright!" She gasped and took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. "I dropped an apple and it rolled into the alley. When I came to pick it up this man ran out from the building and then three men came up in a car. Two of them had guns and one of them was wearing all white and he told the man who came out that he had made a bad decision, that this-this was the boss' orders. The man begged him not to kill him and he called him prince-a-be or principle or something, I—"

But here the man with the green eyes suddenly jerked her forward and looked straight at her. "Did you say Principe?" His voice was quiet but Duck shrink from the sudden intensity she heard in those words. She nodded mutely as the sound of sirens swelled in the distance. The man in front of her frowned and muttered softly to himself, "It's that name again..."

"What name?" Duck asked, confused.

Shaking his head, the man grimaced before looking away, "Nothing. Come on," he pulled her up and Duck had to steady herself as she found her legs numb and unsteady. Behind the man, police cars lined the end of the alley where the three men's car had been parked. With his hand still on her shoulder, the dark haired man started to lead her towards the police cars.

"Where are you taking me?" Duck demanded, trying to pull away from the rudely insistent stranger but stopped when she saw the splatter of blackish-red against the wall of the building. She would've seen the gory sight had the man not walked around her and blocked her view just as her eyes were about to come to the foot of that wall.

With his hand on her elbow, he said without looking at her, "I need you to come with me."

_That much I can tell!_ "But to where?" Duck asked desperately.

"The precinct; you are the primary witness in a mob-related murder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Principe is Italian for "prince"


	2. Chapter 2

Duck found herself sitting in a small, ill-lit office in the 53rd precinct. After she had been brought to the police station she had been led to this room and was asked to wait here by a secretary who left a cup of black coffee with her.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

The clock on the wall paced steadily. Nearly an hour had passed, and there were only dredges left in the cup that sat on the desk in front of her. Duck slouched into the hard wooden chair, wondering if she was going to end up spending the night in this office. At that moment the door opened and the dark haired young man (a cop, Duck had realized only after he had put her inside a police car) walked in. He took off his hat and hanged it on a rack behind the door. Duck's eyes followed him as he walked around the desk and took a seat. Taking out a fountain pen from his suit pocket, he produced a lined notepad from a drawer in the desk and wrote something down on it before finally looking at her.

"Name?"

"Huh?" Duck started.

"What is your name?" he clarified, the nib of his pen hovering expectantly over the lined paper.

"It's Duck. Duck Stannus."

"What is your _real name_?" The young man tapped his pen against the table impatiently.

Duck sighed. "That _is_ my real name."

The man raised an eyebrow, and scribbled onto the thin block of paper. "If you say so." Then under his breath, muttered, "That's one hell of a weird name."

"Well I'm sorry if my grandpa had a rather queer sense of humor!" Duck glowered. The rudeness of this young officer was grating on her raw and tired nerves. She had never met a cop who was so utterly inconsiderate before. This was no way to treat a lady, even though she wasn't exactly a lady, but still! "And just who are _you_ anyway?"

The young officer met her gaze and had Duck been less angry she would've looked away from those sharp eyes that seemed to bore right through her. "My name is Fakir Romeiras, a detective with the New York Police Department. You can call me Detective Romeiras."*

"I don't see why I should call someone so rude a 'detective' anything!" Duck snapped back.

Fakir rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly as he turned his focus back to the task at hand. "Fine; call me Fakir then if you want. What's your age, address, and occupation?"

"I'm 19. My apartment's number 512 on 1750 Lake Avenue and I work at the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop on C Street."

"What do you do there?"

"We sell toe shoes—ballet shoes—that is. I help the customers fit their shoes and any odd jobs that need to be done around the shop."

Fakir noted what she said, then asked, "How did you end up at the crime scene?"

"I told you already. An apple I bought rolled down the alley after I dropped it."

"We need this for the official records so I'll need you to repeat your account in detail. Start from the beginning and tell me everything you remember up to arriving at the precinct."

"You know what I told you! Why do I have to repeat the same thing twice?" Duck yelled. She was growing increasingly frustrated talking to this detective who had the personality of an ice cube. Plus the thought of reliving those minutes huddled behind the crates in the dark made her throat tighten and her stomach queasy, making her even more averse to reliving the whole thing.

Fakir drew a long breath, his own patience wearing thin as well. "Look," he leaned forward and Duck realized how close she was sitting to the table for the first time. "We need to know everything you saw, because what your eyes witnessed tonight just might enable us to put a stop to one of the largest organized crime families in this city. Do you understand that?"

As he spoke Duck recognized the intensity she had seen in his eyes back in the alley. It had surprised her then as it did now and this time she had to look away. Despite his age, for he looked only a few years older than herself, his demeanor was serious and unyielding. Seeing her rebellious air quelled, Fakir sat back into his chair and lit a cigarette while Duck watched broodingly. Once it was lit, he turned his attention back to her and said unexpectedly, "The man who was killed tonight was an informant of ours in the Corvo family."

"The Corvo…family?" Duck echoed softly. He had said this was a mob related murder, Duck remembered. She hadn't really considered what that meant exactly until now and the implications made her shift uncomfortably in her chair.

Fakir inhaled deeply and breathed out a plume of gray smoke. "They have their fingers in all kinds of shady business, everything from fraud, to bootlegging, to racketeering. A jack-of-all-trades type you might say, and deadly as hell to boot. We suspect at least half of the murders that occurred in this area within the past six months are linked to them but don't have much in the way of solid evidence to prove it. They're a very careful and low-key bunch, and few people have heard about them compared to the more publicized rackets. We've only been able to ID a small handful of their top members, and all of their associates are tightlipped as hell.

"Then about a month ago we got a break when we busted a large bootlegging operation and nabbed one of the Corvo underlings. He agreed to give us information about the gang's organization and activities in exchange for leniency. We were hoping with the information from this fella we'd be able to build a case against the Corvos." Fakir tapped the cigarette against an ashtray, the shadow in the room darkening his eyes. "But the gang somehow learned he was being a snitch and now we're left with a literal dead end."

"Which is why we need your help, Miss Stannus," said a new voice.

Duck turned and saw a man wearing a long coat standing by the opened door. The man removed his hat, revealing graying hair and bushy eyebrows. "I am Captain Charon Sideros," he smiled gently toward her. "I was hoping to interview you myself, but some business delayed me." Charon turned to look at the young man who had stood up upon his entrance. "However it seems Detective Romeiras has gotten the jump on me," he said with only a faint air of reprimand.

Fakir said nothing but politely moved away from the desk, allowing the captain to take his place. Charon glanced at the notes jotted down by the young detective before speaking to Duck. "A murder conviction will deliver a severe blow to the mob as well as facilitate further investigation into their misdeeds. However against an organization as wary as the Corvos it will be very difficult to convince a jury without firsthand eyewitness account of a crime. That is why an eyewitness account is one of the most valuable pieces of evidence any police officer can ask for, and why your involvement in this investigation is key, Miss Stannus. I know recounting what you saw tonight will be unpleasant for you, but we truly need your help and cooperation in this."

Mollified by the captain's words and having a greater sense of what was at stake now, Duck rallied herself, and nodded. "Alright then. I'll start from the beginning."

For the next hour or so Charon conducted the interview, taking notes and asking Duck questions intermittently to clarify or expand certain points. Fakir stood to the side, leaning against a cabinet, only making noise to light a new cigarette when his old one was spent, and listened intently to every word that was uttered by both parties.

When it came to describing the suspects' appearance, Duck paused to think. "The men with guns were tall and broad-shouldered. They were both wearing black overcoats and I couldn't see their faces at all because of their hats. I had a better look at the third man though. He's shorter than the other men and wore a suit with a coat draped over his shoulders as well as a scarf and gloves, all in white. His hair was white too, and I remember thinking he was very handsome looking though I couldn't see what color his eyes were because it was so dark."

"Does he have any special features? Like a scar or anything?"

"No, like I said he was very nice looking."

"But do you remember what his face looks like?" Fakir interjected. "Just that he's handsome isn't going to help us identify him."

Duck shut her eyes and tried to concentrate, but try as she might she couldn't reconstruct his exact appearance. Instead all she could conjure in her mind was a pale figure, whose shaded face was framed by wispy white hair and the words she first heard him say, that of: _You made a very unfortunate decision_. The image sent an involuntary shutter down Duck's frame and when she opened her eyes and looked at the expectant expressions on Charon and Fakir's faces, she looked down at her hands in her lap.

"I…I don't remember what exactly he looked like," Duck admitted in a small voice.

Charon grimaced in disappointment, but Fakir wouldn't give up so easily. He walked to the edge of the desk, and practically looming over her, demanded, "You were there! You saw him! You must remember what he looked like! Isn't there anything else that you remember about him?"

Duck edged away from him, desperately trying to remember, but there wasn't anything else forthcoming in her mind. "No, I don't!" Duck shook her head in frustration. The more she forced herself the less she seemed to remember, but somehow his voice always ringed in her ears, she realized. Looking back up, she said, "I don't remember what he looks like exactly, but I remember his voice!" she paused and met Fakir's gaze. "It-I can't describe it, but whenever I think about him I can remember the sound of his voice. I think…I think if I see him again, and hear his voice, then I think I might be able to recognize him."

Fakir pulled back abruptly and turned away from her. The room was quiet again but there was a palpable sense of frustration emanating from the two officers. At last Charon said, "We don't have enough information to have a sketch of him made, I'm afraid. But if we ever come across someone that matches that description would you be willing to try and identify him?"

"Um, I could try…" Duck answered hesitantly.

"That's fine." Charon smiled reassuringly. "As long as you can identify him from a lineup and is willing to testify in court that such a person was the one you saw tonight it will be enough."

"Wait, what do you mean 'testify in court'?" Duck's blue eyes opened wide in surprise. "What does being a witness entail exactly?"

"In a case like this the judge will require you to take an oath and publicly identify the defendant in court. In addition you'll also have to answer any questions from the lawyers and the judge himself during the trial," Fakir explained.

An uneasy feeling grew in Duck's chest. "Publicly identifying the defendant" meant she would have to meet him face-to-face, didn't it? _You made a very unfortunate decision…_ Those words kept echoing in her mind. What would he say to her should they ever meet again? She wondered. Would he repeat those words to her in a calm voice as guns were aimed towards her?

"Miss Stannus?"

Duck woke from her dark reveries at Charon's concerned voice. "Would you be willing to publicly testify against these men?" he asked her gently.

Duck hesitated. Her eyes drifted over to Fakir and saw his disapproving glare. Combined with the smoke from his cigarette it made him look like a dragon peering at her from the gloom. Duck cringed. "…I don't know," she admitted at last, not daring to look at him when she spoke.

Across from her, Charon nodded briefly. "I understand. We are still building our case against the Corvos and it will also take time to try and find the person you described to us today, so you have some time before you must decide. We do not have reason to believe they know of your role in this investigation, but it's best to be vigilant. If you notice any suspicious individuals or activities around you please report it to us right away. And do not talk to anyone, and I mean absolutely no one, about what you saw tonight. Word spreads easily and these people will surely be listening for talks of witnesses."

Duck acknowledged his concerns nervously but gravely. After a few more questions and finishing the necessary procedures, she was escorted home by another officer in an unmarked police car. Charon and Fakir remained in the office, discussing the case and the information on their hands.

"'Principe'. That's the name she said Alphonse uttered before he was killed," Charon mused, his chin resting on the back of his hands as he sat with arms propped up on the table

Fakir rubbed out the spent cigarette in the ashtray and said, "He mentioned that name the first time I spoke with him, said he was one of the young capos in the organization but with close personal ties to the boss. But even Al didn't know much beyond that."

"Alphonse was just a soldier, but he was still our best lead." Charon sighed deeply, his thick brows furrowed. "Now that he's gone we've lost our window on the Corvo family."

"That might be so, but we have an eyewitness. She might not be able to give us enough details for a composite sketch but if we start looking at known Corvo associates who potentially match the description she gave, and as well as put pressure on them for information about someone who fits that description, it might allow us to find him." Fakir picked up the notepad, holding it like a prize in his hand. "Then, as long as she's willing to testify we have a chance at nailing the man she saw tonight in court. And if this 'Prince' character is really as close to the boss as Al says, then we just might be able to climb the vine and link the crime to Domenico Corvo himself!"

Charon sighed again. "It isn't so straight forward, Fakir. That might be what they taught you in law school but it's not just a matter of collecting the evidence, presenting them in court, and expecting the judge to agree with you. I dare say even if we were able to identify 'Principe' and put him on trial Corvo's lawyers would dispute the witness' credibility, especially when Miss Stannus herself admits she can't recall his appearance exactly." The captain capped the pen that he had used during the interview and studied it in his hands before he continued. "We also have to be extra vigilant this time around. When we got Alphonse to talk we thought we had our break, but now he's six feet under. Miss Stannus won't be in any immediate danger, I don't think, but if they can figure out Alphonse's been snitching so soon after he talked to us, then it's conceivable that they will learn there is a witness to his murder before too long."

Fakir frowned, his enthusiasm dampened by his superior's words of caution. "What do you suggest? Should we request someone to keep an eye on her then?"

"No, I doubt the top brass will approve, seeing we are already stretched thin thanks to the rampant gang and bootlegging activity in this town. Having someone sit at her doorstep everyday while we build our case will be viewed as a waste of resources."

"What about the Marshals? It's their job to protect witnesses."

"We have no reason to believe she will be in any immediate danger. The federal government won't act unless her safety is clearly at risk."

"Then I'll keep an eye on her myself." Fakir slapped the notepad back down on the desk and walked to the door to retrieve his hat. Putting it on, he adjusted it before reaching for the doorknob. "As long as she doesn't notice it will be fine and I won't be stepping on anyone else's toes."

At this Charon shook his head and Fakir paused at the door at his voice. "And what if she does? I don't think that girl would appreciate you following her after your interview with her today. She might not be very bold but I can tell she's not the type to let others make her decisions for her."

"Yeah, well, this will be for her own good," Fakir answered flatly as he opened the door, letting the noise of the police station enter the room before shutting it out again when the door closed.

* * *

Miles away, in a mansion on Long Island, a young woman sat brushing her hair in front of a vanity. She was clad in a crimson silk kimono, her manicured hands moving with languid grace through the damp locks; the creamy marble and white tile of the room made her raven hair all the more striking against the red of her robe.

A knock from the door stopped the rhythmic motion of her hands as she looked up from her task. "What is it?" she inquired in a rich, cultured tone that matched her lush surrounding.

"Master Mytho has returned, miss," replied the butler.

With that the door to the bedroom opened and the young man dressed in white walked in. The young woman put her brush down and got up to greet him. Wrapping her slender arms around the man's neck, she kissed him on his cheek.

"Mytho, what took you so long tonight?"

"I'm sorry Rue, but Father had some business for me. It took a little longer than I thought to wrap it all up." He returned her smile and wrapped an arm around her waist.

The smile slipped from Rue's lips for a second but it quickly found itself back in place. She leaned into his arm and watched him through half open, coy eyes. "Daddy's been making you work too hard lately. I've barely seen you all week. We should take a vacation somewhere, to Marseille maybe, or to Rome. What do you say?"

"Don't you have an upcoming picture to shoot? I don't think your producer would be too pleased if you suddenly decide to elope with me to the South of France," Mytho joked as he removed his scarf and coat while Rue moved back to the vanity.

"Daddy has a lot of money invested in his studio; no one there will say a word about it," Rue shrugged as she picked up her brush again.

"Always relying on the dapper*, are we?" Mytho commented coolly as he undid his watch.

Rue's eyes narrowed but she continued brushing her hair. After a moment she felt Mytho grasp her shoulders and his breath on the exposed skin of her neck. The sensation of his fingers massaging her shoulders, electrifying even through the silk, sent a quiver of pleasure down her spine. "But it's fine that way. After all, there's no need for a princess to concern herself with trivial matters of her kingdom, hmm?"

"Yes, a princess…what more could a girl ask for but to be a princess?" Rue said, smiling at his reflection in the mirror.

Mytho leaned in and whispered by her ear, "To be _my_ princess, and I will be your one and only prince."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Duck and Fakir's last names are from Edris Stannus and Pedro Romeiras, both of whom are famous ballet dancers, while Charon's last name is Greek for "blacksmith".
> 
> *A "dapper" is Jazz Age slang for a flapper's father.
> 
> All the legal jargon and minutia in this chapter were the result of my best efforts at getting a rough handle on the subject. Hopefully I didn't get anything flat out wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

The sky was clear, birds were chirping, the streets bustled with life, but Duck saw none of this as she dragged herself to work. By the time she had gotten home last night it was nearly two a.m. and her broken alarm clock had woken her up an hour earlier than it was suppose to. Now grouchy and drowsy, Duck slowly made her way to work.

_It's all because of that stupid gumshoe, making me stay all night in that office!_ Duck grumbled mentally and failed at suppressing a yawn. Just the thought of the police raised her ire. But that inevitably lead her to thoughts about the murder she had witnessed. Looking around at the people around her, all of them going about their own business, completely oblivious to her experience, Duck suddenly felt extraordinarily lonely. Charon had warned her to keep what she saw a secret for her own best interest, but he did not warn her about the hollowness that gnawed at you from the inside that made you feel like you were the perpetrator of the crime rather than its witness.

Clutching her hand bag, Duck turned a corner onto C Street and the familiar sign of "Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop" engraved in florid cursive appeared in view. Next door to the pointe shoe shop, a figure stood waiting by the door of the "Stein Jewelry Store" and Duck's eyes lit up when she saw the person there. The red haired girl's usual good cheer overcame her gloomy mood as she quickened her pace and waved in greeting.*

"Good morning, Miss Edel!"

Edel Stein, a thin, pale woman, smiled a wee smile at the young woman as she approached. "Good morning, Duck," Edel said in a serene but affectionate voice. When Duck came to a stop before her, Edel's painted brows raised slightly at the dark bags under the girl's usually sparkling eyes.

"Is something the matter?" The older woman asked in the same calm, even voice. "You do not look well."

"Oh, uh…I had a hard time falling asleep last night, and my alarm clock woke me up earlier than it should've," Duck said, mostly speaking the truth.

Edel studied Duck for a moment then smiled knowingly. "I see. Perhaps a cup of chamomile tea will help before you go to bed. It will help you sleep as well as relieve tension."

"Tension?" Duck laughed sheepishly, realizing Edel was onto her uneasiness. "Well I'm not really tense, just tired, but being tired can make you tense and jumpy, I guess. In any case, thanks for the advice Miss Edel!"

Edel smiled at Duck's babbling. "You're welcome, Duck." She looked into the jewelry store at the clock hanging on the wall. "Now, if you don't hurry you will be late for work again; it's nearly five to eight."

At this Duck's head shot up and her eyes followed Edel's to the clock, which confirmed the time. It seemed Duck's dour mood and sluggish pace this morning had caused her to take longer than usual to walk to work, even if she left the apartment early thanks to the alarm clock. Now she was late. Again.

"Oh no!" Duck wailed. "I'll see you later then, Miss Edel! Bye!"

Having said the quick farewell, Duck dashed into her workplace next door and without even looking to see who was around, yelled a hasty, "I'm sorry I'm late!"

Expecting a reprimand, instead Duck was assaulted by a cheerful, high pitched voice in her ears. "Oh Duck! Were you expecting Mr. Kotin to yell at you when you ran blindly into the shop? What if you had plowed into a customer? Then you'd get fired and end up destitute!"

"Lilie! Eh? Where's Mr. Kotin?" Duck looked around in surprise, not to what Lilie said, but by the absence of her employer. Her two coworkers, who were also her close friends, had been stocking the shelves until she came in. Now Lilie, a blonde who bore a sweet smile, had her arms wrapped around Duck's arm while they stood amidst pointe shoes, tissue paper, and boxes. Across from them Pique, a bright-eyed young woman who wore her hair in a tight bun, tilted her head to the back of the store.

"He's in the storage room," Pique answered, "checking the inventory." Then leaning in, she and Lilie grinned mischievously, "Because the person who was _supposed_ to do it was late again today."

Duck's eyes went wide. _That's right! I was supposed to do the inventory today!_ She clasped her hands to her cheek and groaned. "Ohh, I totally forgot!"

Pique shrugged. "Ah well, I wouldn't want to do inventory either; it's so stuffy in the backroom. Nobody would want to be in there if given a choice."

"But I'm not late on purpose, Pique! It's all because I couldn't get enough sleep last night!" Duck explained as she put away her coat, hat, and bag in the tall cabinet behind the front counter, and swung the door close with a loud "thump".

Pique crossed her arms and raised a corner of her lips appraisingly. "You do seem a little moody today," she commented. "I can even see some dark circles under your eyes. Was it because of what the boss said to you yesterday?"

"No, I'm used to him yelling at me for being late," Duck sighed at the admission.

"Is it because you had a fling?" Lilie piped up and brought both Duck and Pique's thoughts to a screeching halt. Dreamily, Lilie continued, "It's like in the novels! You met some dashingly handsome young officer but he's been called to duty, leaving you behind heartbroken!"

At this Duck was both flabbergasted and speechless. Thankfully Pique shook her head and said, "There isn't a war going on right now, Lilie. There aren't any 'dashing young officers' running around New York City, or at least, not many, that's for sure."

"Indeed!"

The sudden voice nearly made the three girls jump out of their stockings. Mr. Kotin, a lean man sporting a small mustache and wearing a green sweater, strolled into the room, holding an account book and pen in the hand behind his back. "Love is a sacred thing, Miss Lilie, not something to be taken lightly and played with as if a toy. So many of the young people these days do not understand that, or they no longer appreciate all that love is and can be, taking it for granted like the very air they breath." In a dramatic fashion, Mr. Kotin placed his free hand over his heart, and pronounced, "After all, it is love that brings a man and a woman together, and from there holy matrimony is born!"

Correctly thinking the power of his speech had stunned the girls into silence, he turned to them and cleared his throat. "However," he said in a less dramatic voice, "right now you young ladies should be working! Especially you, Miss Duck!"

Startled out of the daze induced by his earlier deluge of words, Duck bowed her head and apologized. "I'll make sure to come in on time tomorrow, sir! I'm so sorry!"

Mr. Kotin sighed and handed her the account book. "If it's because of that alarm clock again there's a clock smith on Russell Boulevard. He's been in business for thirty plus years and can fix anything made with gears and springs. Now, I have done half of the storage room so far, so I want you to finish the other half and do the display room. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir…" Duck answered weakly as her boss walked away to attend to other business. Thankful that she didn't get yelled at (too much) this time, Duck was grateful for some work to take her mind off of everything. But as she glanced out the shop window on her way to the backroom, her mood clouded over again when she saw someone she wished to never see again standing across the street.

It was the young detective from the night before. He stood leaning against a lamp post, an open newspaper in his hands, but Duck could tell from the tilt of his gaze he wasn't standing there to peruse the morning headlines. Duck wasn't sure what made her more furious at that moment, the fact that he made her late for work, or that he was spying on her while she was at work. Dropping the account book on the front desk, Duck marched out of the store and into the street. From there she walked into mid-morning traffic, skittering around honking automobiles and clunking street cars, and more than once had to stop abruptly to avoid getting ran over.

Meanwhile, Fakir had given up his pretense of reading the paper when he saw her step outside. When Duck set foot on his side of the street he remained where he stood and met her anger head on.

"Why are you here?" Duck demanded through clinched teeth.

Fakir shook the newspaper he held before folding it along its creases. "Reading the morning news, isn't it obvious?"

"And you just happened to be reading it _right across the street_ from where I work?" Duck's voice rose, making a few people turn their heads as they walked by.

Fakir tensed, and quickly scanned the area around them for eavesdroppers but found none. This girl really has no idea how much danger she's in when informants for the mob could be anywhere, he thought to himself. "I would advise you to keep your voice down, unless you want _them_ to find you," he said quietly. This reminder checked Duck's anger, but it did not stop her from glowering at him.

The detective tucked the folded newspaper under one arm and replied in an infuriatingly cool, dismissive voice, "As for your earlier question, this is a public street; it's not a crime to stand here and read." Leaning forward slightly, he said in a lowered voice, "And besides, if I'm not here nobody would be watching your back, and it's clear from the way you ran across the road and started making a scene that you can't do it yourself."

Duck pulled back and yelled, "I can take care of myself! I don't care if you think you're protecting me, I don't appreciate being stalked!"

The corner of Fakir's mouth flinched, evidently not liking Duck's choice of words, or her attitude. "It's for your own good," he repeated. "We don't want you to get yourself into trouble simply because no one was there keeping an eye on you."

"But of all people why does it have to be you?" Duck retorted. "There are plenty of cops in New York City, so why do _you_ have to be one to watch me?"

Fakir didn't flinch from Duck's rage and answered her matter-of-factly. "This is my case, so the responsibility to maintain your safety falls to me," he said. "But in case you're thinking about requesting a different guard, you're out of luck. The department can't spare anyone else for the task."

Duck felt like pulling at her hair in the face of his patronizing attitude. "Don't you have other things you need to do? Like work or something?"

"This is my work."

"Well I have my work to do too, and you are keeping me from that!"

"You were the one who crossed the street to come yell at me. I didn't make you do anything."

"Well that's because I _can't_ work knowing there's someone staring at me all the time!"

There was a pause in their verbal volley as Fakir considered this. "Fine. I will keep an eye on you on your way to and from work but not while you're at the store. However!" Fakir interjected sharply before Duck could say anything. "You swear you will not leave the store during the day by yourself. If you plan to travel anywhere outside of your work place you will inform me ahead of time."

Duck heaved a huge sigh, before she gasped, "Oh, all right then! Fine, have it your way! But if I see you during work, I'll-I'll...call the captain and tell him you're bothering me!" She threatened weakly, but that seemingly pale threat made Fakir shift a little and glance away, as if the thought of tattling to the captain bothered him just a little bit. Seizing on his momentary distraction from her, she continued, "Now if you'll please leave me alone, I'll be going back to work!" And with that, Duck turned around and left, but not before sticking her tongue out at him as a last jab.

Fakir scowled and watched her as she thread her way back through traffic before vanishing into the store. His green eyes carefully scanned the area, and when he saw nothing out of the ordinary, took his leave of the lookout with a "Humph!"

Inside the store, Pique and Lilie watched as Duck stomped back in, causing the bells on the door to clink loudly.

"So…who's he?" Pique ventured, her interest roused by the stranger and his relationship to Duck.

Duck grabbed the account book she had left behind and growled, "He's a prick, that's what he is!"

At this Lilie cooed, "Oh, so he's the source of Duck's depression I see!"

While Pique joined Lilie in a fit of girlish giggles, Duck decided to escape their further probing by retreating to the storage room. Despite the cramped space and stuffy air, Duck was thankful to be away from prying eyes and perked ears. But one thing still would not leave her mind: the shadowed image of the man she has seen the night before. _I wonder what color his eyes are…_ Duck wondered to herself while her hands worked, scribbling down numbers and flipped a page in the thick account book. While she couldn't deny the thought of him frightened her still, she also felt a growing sense of fascination with that man.

_Prince…_ Captain Sideros had explained that that was the meaning of the foreign word she had heard the victim utter. Despite the brutal crime this man had carried out, Duck could imagine him as a prince. Not perhaps one on a noble white steed like in fairytales, but the way he dressed, the way he carried himself…there was something refined about him.

Absorbed in her thoughts, Duck's reverie was broken only when Pique knocked on the storage room door. "Duck, are you going to have lunch with us? Lilie and I want to check out this new Italian café that opened last week. They even have gelatos there."

"But that's all the way on M Street. Is Mr. Kotin going to let you take such a long lunch break?"

"He went to a customer's place for an appointment. He just left and won't be back for at least an hour." Pique winked.

Duck considered her friend's offer but thought better of it. She had already lost the groceries she bought yesterday; she couldn't afford to squander the money she had left by eating out at a fancy cafe. "It's alright, thanks. I'll stay and watch the shop," she answered.

"Are you sure? I hear the waiters there are cute." Pique enticed, but the red haired girl grimaced.

"I'm going to be over my budget if I do. Maybe next time?"

Pique's shoulders drooped, genuinely disappointed. "Okay then. I'll see you in an hour!"

"See you in a bit!" Duck smiled as she followed her friend out of the storage room and waved them good bye.

* * *

On the other side of town, Rue walked past the hanging boughs of magenta bougainvillea framing the front gate of her mansion under the bright noon sun, and took a seat in the back of a black Chrysler. Dressed in a burgundy Chanel dress, her black hair carefully done and hidden underneath a bejeweled dark-purple cloche hat, Rue was the epitome of the fashionable young woman of her age. Taking out a compact from her purse, she quickly examined her make up before snapping it shut and looked up to the reflection of the uniformed chauffeur in the rear view mirror.

"I have a meeting at 1:30 at the Jefferson Building. You know where the place is?"

The driver nodded, "Yes, Miss Legnani."

Rue sat back against the plush leather seat, contemplating the sound of her stage name. She began using the name of Odile Legnani when she debuted in the film industry two years ago. "Rue" was not grand enough of a name for an actress, especially not an accomplished actress, which Rue had full intention of becoming. "Odile" was a far more appropriate name; it called to mind the image of the Black Swan: elegant, majestic, and strong, three qualities she emulated and exuded.*

As the car was ready to pull out of the driveway a maid hurried up to the car and waved to the driver for him to stop. Rue rolled down her window and rather irritated by this last minute delay, demanded, "What is it?"

The timid maid stuttered, "M-Master Mytho called, miss. He said he won't be able to come by this evening, and that he's sorry he'll have to break off the engagement for tonight's party."

Rue's eyes narrowed. "Did he say why?"

"No, just that some business came up that he had to attend to."

"I see." Rue inhaled a deep breath. "Phone him back and tell him it will be fine. We can go to another party together some other time."

When the tinted window was rolled up again and the car on its way, Rue's mind lingered on her absent beau. She knew perfectly well what a "job" meant to Mytho and that the business he was called away on today most likely had to do with the aftermath of that hit from last night. She wondered who the victim was, but she mentally shook her head. No, that mattered little, and that was not what was bothering her. It was Mytho she was concerned about, and the repercussions of his profession haunted her.

As the daughter of Don Corvo, Rue was like a star: bright and beautiful but born and surrounded by darkness. As such, her family's business bothered her very little. She had met other henchmen of her father before, and had never been overly concerned about their fates. But with Mytho it was different. The fear that one day he would get caught nagged at her, and like the moon sways the rise and fall of the tides, the feeling rose and fell with each job he carried out. This time was no different, but besides concerns about the police, something about Mytho himself was worrying Rue. One reason she adored him was because he, unlike many of the other men she had dated, was sincere and honest. His smiles were true, his actions pure. But that was changing now. On the outside he was still as charming as he had always been, but his words were edgier, like a knife's edge that grows sharper the longer it's polished against a stone.

As the streets outside passed by like a never-ending parade of fleeting shapes and colors, Rue remembered the time of their first meeting. She was sixteen and was infatuated with dance. Before the motion pictures took off every little girl dreamed of being the prima donna in a ballet or opera. Rue was no different and had practiced classical ballet since girlhood. She had been going to a boarding school in Upstate New York for the last four years and had studied ballet there. Without notice her father sent word that she was to return to New York City. Rue had no choice but to quit the school, as it was unwise to challenge her father's order. Once back home she learned it was because some upheaval had occurred within the family and Don Corvo wanted his daughter close by, in case someone should attempt to harm her while she was away.

For weeks Rue spent her days cooped up inside the house, waiting for the tension within the family to die down. Finally unable to stand the boredom any longer, Rue had appealed to her father to let her practice ballet in a dance studio nearby, citing that her technique would deteriorate if she did not practice regularly. In the end her father had agreed to let her go only if two bodyguards went with her and stood guard outside the building. It was under those conditions that Rue found herself practicing alone in the empty studio with only the crackling music from the phonograph as her companion.

The scene surfaced clearly in Rue's mind. She was performing grand jetés, her shadow mirroring her jumps as the warm glow of twilight filtered into the room through the dusty windows. She had been so absorbed in her leaps that she did not notice the young man slip into the room. The door latch clicked and the sound broke Rue's concentration for a split second, right as she was about to land from a jump.

Rue did not remember what exactly happened right after that, only the aftermath. She was lying on the floor, expecting a painfully twisted ankle as she opened her eyes. Instead she felt a warm body move beneath her and found herself in the arms of a boy with pale hair and amber colored eyes.

"Are you all right, miss?" he asked in a gravely concerned voice.

Rue stared at him, then realized he had dove in and caught her from her fall. "I-I'm fine. Who are you and what are you doing here? This studio is closed." She added, though it occurred to her she was not actually upset by this stranger's intrusion on her practice session.

The boy smiled and Rue was arrested by his ethereal appearance. The fading light made the old cotton shirt he wore glow with a soft creamy color. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and she could see and feel the warm, smooth skin of his arm against her own. A slow blush crept over Rue's cheeks but she hid it by looking away from the boy as they stood up from the floor. In the background the phonograph continued to play, adding a sweet melody to this already surreal encounter.

"My name is Mytho. I'm an apprentice here but I lodge upstairs. I was told by the instructor not to come down here after five because someone had booked the studio for the evening. However, I realized I had left my shoes here after afternoon practice. I thought I would be able to pick it up before you came. I'm really sorry for interrupting you and causing you to fall. It's good that you're not hurt."

Rue was intrigued. She had never met someone like him, someone who possessed an angelic appearance and a gentle, intelligent voice. Mytho walked over to a corner and retrieved the ballet shoes she had not noticed were there before. Rue watched him, and asked, "Those shoes are barely holding together. You should get a pair of new ones."

The boy however, shook his head. "There's no need to."

"But you can't keep dancing in those; they're on the verge of falling apart! No matter how good you are as a dancer, you can't perform at your peak unless you have good shoes."

At this, Mytho turned around and Rue was taken aback by the sadness in his eyes. "That is true, but I won't be dancing any longer," he said and looked at the still room with its wooden barre and polished mirrors lining the wall. "I've run out of money and will have to move out of the studio next week. I'm trying to find work, but haven't had any luck so far."

"You can come work for my father."

Mytho's eyes widened in surprise at this unexpected offer. As for Rue, she had become captivated by this pale haired boy and desperately wanted to get to know him better. She was also desperately lonely, for she had no friends here in New York City, and craved the company of someone her own age. But since he was leaving the only way to keep him around was if he went to work for her father. _Father's always looking for new people, and this boy looks smart and sharp,_ she reasoned. And if Father likes him he will keep him around longer, and the thought of that prompted Rue to continue to say, "And once you get enough money you can come back here, or go to another place, to study and dance. That way you don't have to worry about not having a place to go."

She walked closer to him, her long shadow melting into his as the last rays of day began to fade. Though this was not her true intention, Rue felt it would get him to agree, and indeed, Mytho's spirit brightened and his smile returned. "That would be wonderful! Oh!" he seemed to realize something belatedly. "How rude of me, I haven't asked for your name yet."

"My name is Rue," the raven haired young woman responded.

"Rue," Mytho repeated, letting the syllable roll off his tongue softly. And just when Rue thought his smile couldn't get any warmer, she was proven wrong. "I'm very glad to have met you, Rue!"

Rue blinked her eyes and the memory faded back to the recess of her mind as the gray streets of New York came back into focus. Everything had gone according to plan: her father agreed to employ Mytho, and in the beginning he was a delivery boy, carrying goods the family dealt in from one associate to another. Gradually the errands became more important and riskier and it did not take long before Mytho realized just what kind of "business" her family was involved in. And yet, he never left her. Rue told herself it was because he was in love with her, just as she was in love with him; why else would he be willing to stay in the darkness when he could be shining, under the brilliant spot lights of the stage he had yearned for? Perhaps he had abandoned his hopes for ballet, content in the comfortable dark nest he had found. She had outgrown her childish dreams over the years as well. Movies have replaced more traditional performing arts in popularity, and Rue recognized that to become the prima donna she had always dreamed of she would have to trade in practice rooms for movie sets, grand jeté in a dance studio for takes in front of the camera.

But even as ballet remained no more than a footnote in the present, its influence on her past could not be easily, or willingly, erased. And it was so that as the car drove past the pointe shoe store, a pair of toe shoes advertised on a poster in the window caught her attention. For a split second in her mind, Rue remembered herself in pointe shoes, back in that time before her anxieties, and a pure and pristine Mytho held her in his arms. The shop passed by as fast as the flash of memory. Not willing to let it go, Rue leaned forward and said to the chauffeur, "Turn back around and drop me off in front of that pointe shoes shop back there."

"But the meeting Miss Legnani—"

"It will be fine. I'll tell them I got lost and it took me longer than expected."

With that the driver dutifully made his way around the block and came to a stop in front of the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. He opened the door for Rue, who instructed him to come back in half an hour and gave him a few dollars to pass the time before he drove off, leaving her alone in front of the store.

Duck looked up when the door opened and the bell on the doorknob twinkled. Getting up from behind the counter, she brushed her dress and greeted Rue with a smile. "Hello, do you have an appointment with us today?"

Rue scanned her eyes over Duck, taking in the girl's simple clothes and old-fashioned hairstyle, and shook her head briefly. "No, I'm just looking."

"Oh! Okay, please take your time then." While Duck went back to her chair behind the counter Rue walked around the shop. On the left side of the shop were short shelves stocked with newly made pointe shoes, all separated according to size. On the back wall photographs of famous ballerinas past and present watched over a barre installed into the wall. A floor-length mirror framed in bronze shared the floor with a plush Louis XIV chair in the space between the barre and the front counter. The walls were painted a soft rose color and the vase of fresh flowers by the oak counter lent a peaceful, elegant quality to the store. All in all, Rue assessed to herself, for a place in this part of the city, this store was quite impressive, though she couldn't imagine there being too many dancers who would come to the Bronx for their pointe shoes when they could order their shoes from Paris or London, and she voiced those thoughts to the lone shop girl present.

"Quite honestly, I'm surprised to find a pointe shoe store here. Upper West Side would be a more appropriate location for a place like this."

"Mr. Vaslav Kotin said it was too expensive to open a store in that part of town, and he likes it here just fine."

"Vaslav Kotin? Is he Russian?" Rue inquired disinterestedly as she continued to browse.

Duck nodded, but Rue did not see, as only three quarter of her head was visible above the tall counter. "He came here about seven years ago because of the revolution. The photographs in the back are all pictures of his former clients."

Rue paused in her walk around the store at this revelation. "Is that so?" She arched her brows and recalled the faces of famous ballerinas she had seen. While she did not fully believe this secondhand story about the store owner's history (By her count half the prima donnas in Imperial Russia would've been his customer at one time or another, if one were to judge by the photos. Either the man was greatly exaggerating or else he really was an extraordinary cobbler), nevertheless, Rue's curiosity was piqued and she looked more closely at the shoes around her.

Almost immediately she noticed a pair of red toe shoes, so different in color from the others that she didn't know how she could have missed them when she first surveyed the store. Rue walked back to the red shoes and traced a manicured finger over the smooth satin. The shoes were indeed very well made, constructed from high quality fabric and leather, stitched and glued together seamlessly. If ballet as a whole was considered high art, then toe shoes like this would be the bases for ballet itself; for the shoes were an object of artful beauty by themselves. Thinking this, Rue mused if perhaps the owner was not exaggerating his credentials after all.

Picking up the red satin shoes, Rue turned to Duck. "I want to try these on."

Duck hesitated when she saw which pair of shoes Rue was holding. The shop girl looked at Rue uneasily. "Those belong to someone who special ordered them, I don't think—"

But Rue cut her off and took a seat in the chair by the mirror. "Nonsense, I'm only trying them on for a little bit; no one will know anyone has worn these."

Duck could do little but accept Rue's request as the raven haired actress handed the shop girl her coat and hat. Stepping into the shoes, Rue stood and examined her feet in the mirror, then at herself. From the outside the shoes look to be a good fit but Rue could feel the shank was too hard for her foot and the cut on the heel too high. This was no surprise, since the shoes weren't made for her. Nevertheless, she wanted to indulge a little. Lifting her arm, Rue laid one hand on the barre, brought her feet into fifth position, stretched her arm out, and performed a port de bras.

Duck watched from the side. She marveled at the precise movements that told her this dark haired young woman had been training professionally for a long time. In the simple turn of her foot, the curve of an arm, one could see Rue's natural grace shining through. Her expression was dreamy as she moved through her routine, her eyes half lidded as if absorbed in a world all her own. Seeing this, Duck was reminded of the pictures in the back of the shop, of the ballerinas dressed in their delicate costumes. Rue wore no tulle skirt, and because ribbons had not been sewn into the shoes, she could not go en pointe. But the silk of her shimmering dress and her lithe figure were just as enchanting as any classical dancer.

_She's so beautiful…she must be a professional dancer!_ Shyly, Duck ventured, "Mm. So what company are you with?"

Rue lowered her arms and turned her back to the mirror. With the end of the exercise the dreaminess had disappeared from her eyes, and she looked at Duck now with a clear, alert gaze. She shrugged lightly. "I don't do ballet any more."

That wasn't the answer Duck had been expecting and her voice echoed her surprise. "But why? Your technique and balance are really good—"

"Have you ever heard of the story of the girl in the red shoes?" The actress said as she sat back down in the chair, crossed her legs and reached down to caress her borrowed shoes, savoring the touch of the satin against her skin.

Duck combed through her memory of tales her grandfather had told her but could not recall any involving red shoes. Taking Duck's bewildered expression as her answer, Rue explained, "It's about a girl who was to keep dancing forever in her red shoes. I was like that once, wanting to keep dancing my days away, wanting to become the prima donna in the center of the stage."

Duck frowned. "What changed?"

Rue smiled wistfully and pulled one shoe off her feet. "I grew up, and realized no one can go on dancing forever. Now instead of dancing I have found another way to be in the spot light."

Duck was silent as Rue took off the other toe shoe. Then the shop girl said quietly, "My mother used to dance as well, but stopped after having me. She taught ballet and worked in this shop part-time after we moved here from the old country. Even though Ma stopped dancing I believe she never forgot her love for dance." Azure eyes met ruby ones as Duck smiled at the former ballerina. "Even though you've moved on, when I saw the way you moved and how happy you looked while wearing those shoes, I don't think you have forgotten your love for ballet either."

At this Rue was surprised to find herself speechless. She was naturally a quick-witted girl, and rarely found herself caught off guard by other people's words. But now, instead of words, her lips curved and she found herself returning Duck's smile. It seemed the shop owner's origin was not the only surprise she would find here. Intrigued by this seemingly unassuming girl, Rue inquired, "What's your name?"

Duck hesitated. She was used to people's surprise at her name, but yesterday's encounter with Fakir made her more wary than usual. It also didn't help that, as much as she admired Rue's beauty and talent, Duck felt a little intimidated by her, not the least of which was because of the other's commanding presence and piercing gaze. At last, Duck, with a notable measure of embarrassment, whispered, "It's…Duck."

"Duck?"

To her credit Rue didn't laugh or scoff, just raised her thin dark brows at the name. But Duck interpreted the surprised tone in Rue's voice as disbelief, and quickly explained with stumbling words, "It wasn't my idea! I don't know why my grandpa named me that, though people say he was a bit strange and had an odd sense of humor so maybe that had something to do with it. Ma didn't object because she thought it sounded cute, like a duckling, but I think it makes people think I'm clumsy, and it's all round not a very flattering name to have." By the end of that long-winded explanation Duck inhaled and blushed deeply. "So, um, what's your name?"

Rue wanted to laugh at the young woman's sputtering behavior, but thought better. Her own given name—though not nearly as unconventional as Duck's, to say the least—was not exactly memorable either, and was the precise reason why she now went by a stage name. Thus she could relate to Duck's dilemma, and so, before Rue even realized it, she answered, "Call me Rue."

At this moment Rue's car pulled up outside the shop. The young actress looked at her watch and expelled an annoyed sigh. "Drat, I need to get going." She handed the toe shoes to Duck who hurried to gather her hat and coat. As Rue stepped out of the shop, she stopped when Duck called to her from the doorway, "It was nice meeting you, Rue!" she said with sincerity and a smile that was as genuine as the sunlight illuminating her freckled cheeks.

In front of Rue the chauffeur held the door of the car open for her, waiting for her to return from this chance tangent and back to the path she should be taking. It was unlikely she will ever meet this girl with the unusual name ever again, just another face in the endless stream of people one meets in one's lifetime. But Rue turned around, stopped, and returned the smile before stepping into the car.

The pointe shoe shop grew ever smaller from her view from the back windshield. Rue gave the corner it stood on one last lingering look before the car turned down a different street. Looking down at her pumps, the feeling of toes shoes still fresh in her mind, Rue felt the unease from earlier subsiding a little. Perhaps the girl named Duck was right: ballet still played a sizable role in her life even now. Perhaps there would always be some things that did not change with time, Rue pondered, and found comfort in those thoughts.

* * *

As Duck returned home that night she thought about Rue, of her relinquished dream of dancing, of a mobster dressed in white, of detectives and their smoke filled office. Duck locked the creaking wooden door to her apartment behind her and tugged on a switch somewhere in the dark. The single light bulb in the dining room flickered to life and cast deep shadows beneath the dining table and cabinets. It was a small, under-heated apartment, but the various knickknacks and homeliness of the furnishings gave the otherwise dank living space a feeling of comfort.

Making her way to the single bedroom, Duck walked up to a chest-high cabinet. A white lace tablecloth covered the top of the wooden cabinet, atop which sat two small photographs, a pair of worn toe shoes, and a small jewelry box. The larger of the two photos showed a woman with hair the same shade as Duck's, her slender body clothed in the costume and headdress of Odette. She stood en pointe, her arms spread wide as if she was to take flight. On the lower left corner was sighed the name "Elsa" in an elegant script. In the second photograph the same woman, now dressed in normal clothing, sat beside a young girl who bore a striking resemblance to her and to Duck. The woman had her arm wrapped around the girl while the child rested her head on the woman's lap. Both wore the same smile, and it was this happy photo Duck picked up and spoke to.

"I met someone very pretty today, Ma. Her name is Rue. She was a dancer, just like you. She came in and tried on a pair of shoes we have after that annoying detective from yesterday showed up again." The thought of Fakir made Duck make a face in the dark but her annoyance soon faded and Duck looked down at the photograph of her mother and herself with confused and apprehensive eyes.

"I really wish I hadn't seen what I saw yesterday, but there's nothing I can do to change that is there?" Duck paused, in thought. "'Principe', that's the nickname of the man I saw yesterday. I'm scared when I think about him but also, somehow, I can't stop thinking about him. He seems like such a beautiful person, just like Rue today, but when I remember what he said to the man who was killed...it frightens me. The cops want me to identify him face-to-face, and I know it's the right thing to bring criminals to justice, but the thought of seeing him again scares me so much." Duck tightened her fingers around the gilded silver of the frame and felt tears welling up in her eyes. "I can't tell anyone about all this, because it would be dangerous if the bad guys found out about me. Not even Lilie or Pique, or even Miss Edel is to know about it. But it's hard…not being able to tell anyone."

Taking a deep breath and exhaling with a sniff, Duck wiped away the moisture gathered at the edge of her eyes. Looking back down at the woman in the photograph she knew her mother wouldn't be able to answer her, for she had died many years ago during the flu pandemic. Duck remembered how helpless she was at the time. She was only fourteen and had been stricken with a mild bout of the disease from which she made a full recovery. But the flu brought down her mother with a vengeance. The hospitals were already overflowing with patients and her mother, who had been strong and healthy all her life, grew so weak so quickly she couldn't get out of bed. Duck cared for her as best she could, never leaving her side except to fetch groceries and medicine.

Through it all, her mother never lost hope, never gave into despair at her condition, even though she knew full well how serious her illness was. A page of Duck's memory turned at her recollection, and Duck remembered asking her mother a few days before she passed away what she would do if she were gone. She had been scared back then too. Her grandpa had passed away before they came to the states and her mother was her only remaining family and she would be all alone without her. Her mother, Elsa, had looked at her then, her skin as pale as the sheets that covered her. Weary but steady blue eyes met trembling blue eyes, and the steady blue eyes smiled.

_It will be alright, Love. Even if I'm no longer here I know you will be able to manage by yourself, and there is Mr. Kotin and Miss Edel to look after you. And even if they weren't there to help you, know this: you are never as alone as you believe yourself to be._

"'You are never as alone as you believe yourself to be.'" Duck repeated the words to herself. Hugging the photo to her chest, a soothing feeling trickled through her body. Her mother's words comforting her now as they did then.

_It will be alright..._

* * *

The next morning Duck was woken by the sound of heavy footsteps and loud noises. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at the alarm clock (which kept decent time, even if it didn't live up to the "alarm" part of its name) on the nightstand by her bed and found the hands pointing at 7:52. It bewildered her why anyone would be making a ruckus this early in the morning, on a Saturday no less. There was no chance of her falling back asleep with the noise bouncing in through the thin walls. And so, irritably, Duck rose and wrapped herself in her bathrobe before stalking out to the hallway to see what the racket was about.

To her surprise she saw only a single person, not the army she had been expecting, walking down the corridor. The person held a stack of boxes but when he shifted them in his arms and turned his face sideways, Duck gasped in recognition.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

The person with the boxes was none other than Fakir, now dressed in a simple white shirt with its sleeves rolled up and dark trousers. At her exclamation, he put the boxes down on the scarred wooden floor and nodded his head towards the empty unit next to hers. "I'm moving into my new apartment. I finished all the paper works yesterday and the landlord gave me the keys this morning. Starting from today, this will be my new home," he said casually, but there was a tone of unconcealed smugness in his voice.

Duck could only stand there and gap at him. She couldn't believe this. He was moving in next door to her, this prick who insulted her name, stalked her at work, was now going to live right next to her! Her eye twitched at the thought. The dismay and anger in her swelled and bubbled, and like a kettle set to boiling, she bellowed out into a cry loud enough to wake the whole building.

"Aarrgggg! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Kot" in Russian means "cat", and the "-in" ending is a common Russian ending to family names. Mr. Kotin's first name of "Vaslav" is a tribute to the very famous Russian danseur, Vaslav Nijinsky.
> 
> *Rue's stage name of "Odile Legnani" is a combination of the Black Swan Odile from Swan Lake and the Italian ballerina, Pierina Legnani. Pierina Legnani was the first ballerina to perform the famous 32 fouettes en tournant, a series of turns first performed in a production of Cinderella but which would later become a signature routine of the Black Swan in productions of Swan Lake.
> 
> *Edel's last name of "Stein" means "stone" in German. If you were to string her first and last name into one word, you'd get "edelstein" which is German for "gemstone", a name which I think is very fitting for a jewelry store owner.
> 
> The word "prick" in the context of describing an annoying individual didn't come about until 1929. I'm using it here because it expresses what I want the characters to feel, and since I'm not going for 100% historical accuracy, I thought you guys would let me slide on this. XD;;
> 
> Lastly, thanks once again to HaleySings for betaing this story!


	4. Chapter 4

The door of Duck's apartment closed with a "chink", a sound echoed a few seconds later from nearby.

Duck glared indirectly at the person locking the door behind him. She turned and started to walk away. Behind her Fakir's footsteps followed in her wake and the red haired girl scowled as she stomped down the stairs. From their apartment, down to the pavement, around the street corner, the young detective, dressed in his pin strip suit and fedora, would walk a few paces behind her. To the average pedestrian nothing looked out of the ordinary, simply two people walking in the same direction in the early morning commute. But to Duck, it felt as if Fakir was right behind her, his breath practically rolling down her back.

And so with shoulders hunched, Duck made her way to work with this persistent shadow behind her back. Since he moved in little more than a week ago, Fakir began following her to work and tailing her on her way home every day. In the beginning Duck had tried to throw him off by leaving her apartment earlier but he was always already in the hallway, waiting for her. She had even tried to out run him, but despite her above average sprinting abilities, even Duck could not run the entire mile-long eight city blocks to work without stopping to catch her breath. And when she did Fakir would stroll past her, perfectly composed while she huffed and puffed on the sidewalk.

But that was hardly the worst part of having this prick of a gumshoe as a neighbor, Duck thought to herself as she crossed onto E Street. She recalled the morning when she learned he was moving next door to her as one of the worst mornings in her life.

"Aarrgggg! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!" She had bellowed when she first found out.

This being New York, and this being a small tenant building with thin walls, Duck's outburst did not go unnoticed.

"Who is makin' all this ruckus in the morning?" An angry old lady wearing a mob cap yanked her door open, and though she couldn't see the perpetrators through her squinty eyes, it didn't stop her from letting lose some loud, angry words of her own. "If you're gonna yell take it somewhere else! The rest of us are tryin' to sleep, you know!" and with a mighty "bang!" she disappeared back behind her door, leaving a stunned and embarrassed Duck frozen in place.

Fakir didn't seem affected by this episode at all, and reached into his pant pocket to grab something before holding it out to Duck.

"Here," he tossed the object to Duck, who nearly drop it before her fumbling hands closed around the thing. Looking down, she saw a small key lying on her palm, its metallic surface gleaming softly when it caught the light just so.

"This is the key to my place. If something happens and you need to find me you can get into my apartment with that spare key."

Duck's head snapped up as a blush rapidly spread across her face, nearly matching the shade of her hair in its color. "W-what kind of man gives a girl the key to his room?" She pushed the key back to him and backed away with her hands raised in front of her. "There's no way I'm going to keep that!"

Fakir rolled his eyes. Taking the key, he lifted up the rug at the front of his door and slipped the key underneath it. "I'm going to leave it here then, but whether you like it or not, I'm not going to let you out of my sight," he said, fixing her with a look that matched his assertive tone.

"I don't know if you've somehow got this all screwed up in your head, but I am not the criminal that you're trying to catch!"

Fakir put his hands into his pockets and in a voice that clearly demonstrated he was not the least intimidated or bothered by her anger, said, "I'm doing this for your own good. I suggest you make it easier for yourself by accepting things for the way they are." Despite Duck absolutely fuming at him, he continued, "If you're going to travel anywhere besides work and the grocers, I need you to tell me ahead of time. That includes any trips with friends or family, as well as any special errands you have to run."

At this point Duck had just about had it with his insistent demands. Not only has her Saturday morning been ruined by him, he had no notion or respect for her privacy and opinion either. She turned sharply on her slippered heels and walked back into her apartment. Gripping the knob of her door, she craned her neck at him and said defiantly, "I don't have to tell you anything! You're supposed to be a detective right? If you want to know where I'm going then figure it out for yourself!"

And with that her door closed with a loud, rattling "bang!"

This had happened more than a week ago, and Duck was beginning to regret making that declaration (or was it a challenge?) the way she did when she did it. Fakir had indeed followed her everywhere, even without her giving him a single clue where she might be going. When she went to the bookshop to pick up a crossword puzzle book, he waited outside the whole time. When she went to get her alarm clock fixed, he was there too, sitting casually at the diner across the street from the clock smith.

Combined with the fact that he would follow her to and from work everyday, had Duck been any less exasperated by him she'd probably find his tracking ability more unnerving than infuriating.

The door of the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop clinked musically as Duck slumped in for another day of work. Outside, Fakir walked past the shop window without a pause in his step, but when Duck looked up she met his eyes through the glass and scowled at him until he disappeared beyond the window.

When she turned back, Pique and Lilie stood perched on the front counter, watching the whole exchange. Pique grinned at Duck. "Honestly, I don't see why you're so upset, Duck. I'd be more than willing to have a handsome guy like that follow me everywhere I go."

"Oh! I sense a battle brewing! Duck, what ever will you do? Pique is amorous of your secret admirer! Well—maybe not _that_ secret since we all know about it—but still!" Lilie said with visible excitement in her voice.

Duck could only groan in response. Ever since she had confronted Fakir across the street Pique and Lilie have gotten the idea that Fakir was her flame into their heads. While Duck had repeatedly denied that was the case, her friend either had highly selective hearing or else they simply found the situation too amusing to _not_ keep teasing her about it. Either way, it gave Duck one more reason to resent the young detective.

 _It's a good thing I didn't tell them he's living next to me, or else…_ Duck blushed at the potential jokes her friends would make at that bit of information and quickly stuffed the thought back down. After the chatter about tall, handsome strangers had died down, Pique picked up a page of newspaper that had been resting beside her arm on the counter.

"Say Duck, have you seen this?" Duck looked at the page Pique held out to her and saw it was an advertisement for the Macy's Christmas Parade*.

"The Christmas Parade?"

Pique nodded her head enthusiastically. "It's supposed to stretch from 145th Street all the way to Broadway. Lilie and I are planning to go tomorrow and we're hoping you'd be able to come with us since you missed out on the café last time."

Duck mentally grimaced at the idea of Fakir following her through New York City with her friends in tow when an idea struck her: what if he _thought_ she wasn't going anywhere that day?

* * *

Later that evening after having bid her friends good bye, Duck turned her feet towards home. Fakir was waiting for her at the corner of the street and neither greeted the other in any way as they walked back together, a few paces apart again. Duck didn't stop until she was in front of her door, and there she cast her eyes over her shoulder and glowered at him. "Just how long do you intend to keep following me anyway?"

Fakir walked past her to the door of his apartment and took out his own key. "However long it takes for this case to go to court."

Duck looked at him flabbergasted. "Even on holidays?"

Fakir looked at her, then turned his attention back to unlocking his door. "Why? Are you planning to go somewhere tomorrow?"

Standing her ground obstinately, Duck barked back, "What I do on my day off is none of your business!"

"Well I've made it _my_ business." Fakir glared back at her, challenging her with his own resolute decision.

At his retort, Duck's cheeks puffed up and she yelled, "Urg! Fine, I'm not going anywhere, okay? At least that way I can have one day without you in my face!" Pulling open her door with far more force than necessary, Duck closed it loudly behind her. Leaning against the door, Duck took a minute to take a few deep breathes to calm her temper. Once her head has cooled, a smile broke over her face and she knew she was in the clear for tomorrow's parade.

Fakir, for his part, had merely rolled his eyes at Duck's brusque attitude towards him. It didn't matter to him what she thought of him. While she had been more aptly an annoying eyesore than a useful eyewitness thus far, he was willing to put up with her knowing it was for the sake of the case he was building. But keeping up with her had not been easy, and more than once he almost lost track of her when she tried to shake him off. Despite those setbacks Fakir had one thing on his side: persistence. Little did he know that today, on a cold November morning, that persistence would be put to the test.

The morning of November 27th was lightly overcast with the sunlight turned into a hazy glow over the tops and edges of buildings and water towers. Duck opened a crack in the door of her apartment and was delighted to see the hallway deserted. Tip toeing out, she walked cautiously down the hall, taking care to avoid all the places in the floorboard that creaked. Once down the first two flights of stairs, she quickened her pace and made a bee line for the shop where she was to meet up with Lilie and Pique.

Meanwhile Fakir stood by his window, a cup of coffee in hand. Waking up by the crack of dawn was his habit and he hadn't had the luxury of enjoying his coffee in the morning since starting his watch on Lake Avenue. However his peace was cut short when a dash of red ran across the street below him. At first Fakir wasn't sure what it was that he saw, but in a split second he recognized the swinging braid that trailed out from beneath the yellow hat.

"Damn!"

Fakir slammed the coffee mug down so hard he would later find a nice crack in the glaze. Grabbing his hat and coat, he found himself on the pavement half a minute later just as Duck rounded a corner several blocks away, moving towards the pointe shop. Fakir sprinted after her, but her lead was significant and he could not catch up to her. By the time he made the turn to C Street, he caught a glimpse of Duck and her friends standing in a street car before the trolley and its passengers disappeared from view. Realizing it was impossible for him to catch up to her now he stopped in the nearly deserted street, panting and more than a little angry at the disappearing act Duck had managed to pull on him. Wiping his hand through his sweat tinged hair, his eyes stopped on a figure beside the pointe shoe shop.

Edel stood sweeping the pavement outside her store. She did so leisurely, with her eyes to her work, but from her alert eyes and the tilt of her face one could tell she was very much aware of what was going on around her. And it was so when Fakir walked up to her, she lifted her eyes to meet his and her hands stopped their work as if she'd been expecting him the whole time.

"How might I help you?" she inquired calmly.

Though he saw her nearly everyday when Duck stopped by the Stein Jewelry Shop, Fakir was struck by her cool gaze and smooth, even voice. He cleared his throat, "I was wondering if you could tell me where Duck has gone."

"And what business might you have with Duck?" Edel responded.

"I need to see her. I saw her going off somewhere with her friends. Would you by any chance know where they are going?" he asked again.

Edel turned to face him, the broom stick resting in the crock of her right arm as she stood blocking Fakir's path. "I see you following her everyday, yet you do not know to where she had gone." The willowy woman studied him. "Just who are you and why are you so interested in Duck's whereabouts?"

Being a cop in New York City, Fakir was not easily intimidated. He'd faced thugs, murders, and thieves aplenty, yet the woman who stood in front of him made him nervous, like a school boy called to stand in front of the headmistress. Unable to find his voice for a satisfactory answer, he reached inside his coat and held up the sparkling police badge in his palm. Fakir had hoped the sight of the badge would help him get the answers he needed, as most civilians were intimidated by the sight of a police badge, but Edel only studied it with a jeweler's critical eye before seeming to dismiss it.

"She saw something, didn't she?"

Fakir's eyes grew wide and his shoulders tensed. "How—" he began, but Edel silenced him with a shake of her head.

"Duck would never get herself into trouble. The only reason for the police to keep watch over her would be if she had inadvertently become involved in something." Edel's eyes fell and it was not hard to see from this small gesture that this unsettled the normally composed woman.

'That's why I'm trying to protect her." Fakir's voice brought Edel's eyes back to him. "That's why I'm asking you to please tell me where she's gone. If her existence as a witness is discovered she will be in serious danger!"

There was a long protracted silence when neither of them spoke. Fakir realized what was happening now: Edel was judging him. From his research on the people around Duck, Edel had been living here a long time and would've watched Duck grow up. It was clear from Duck's daily greeting that she was very close to Edel, and though Edel wasn't effusive with her affections, it was undeniable that she was very fond of Duck as well. It was only natural that when a stranger started to follow the young woman around a maternal figure like Edel would be wary of him, Fakir told himself. But the question now was whether Edel trusted him.

"They've gone to see the Christmas Parade," Edel answered at last and Fakir let out the breath he had been holding, knowing he had passed her test. "However," Edel looked off to the distance, "the parade route is long and there will be thousands of people there. How will you hope to find her? Perhaps it is best to wait and hope for her safe return."

 _She has a point._ Fakir's brows furrowed. But who knows what could happen in the course of one day? If nothing happened to Duck and she returned safely that would be for the best, but in case something was to happen today he wanted to know he at least tried to keep her safe.

Edel watched him as he debated his course of action with himself. When she saw him seeming to have made up his mind, she smiled faintly and said, "Duck told me she and her friends were planning to take the subway and go to Herald Square. That would narrow the search for you. Nonetheless, it will still be extremely difficult to find her."

"I have to try first!" Fakir stepped forward and Edel stepped out of his way. She continued to smile as he dashed down the street on Duck's trail.

* * *

Once they've arrived on the parade route Duck was glad she was able to ditch Fakir earlier. She, Lilie, and Pique had spent the last few hours marveling at acrobats balanced precariously on stilts, elephants and giraffes walking in neat rolls, bands playing merry tunes from polished trombones and trumpets, colorful floats and balloons with cheering people in costumes. Now it was nearly noon and the parade was nearing it end and the crowd was getting restless for the big finale. It was also at this time that Duck felt her stomach rumble and she was reminded of how early she had had breakfast this morning.

A little embarrassed, Duck said to her friends, "I'm getting hungry. How about we get lunch somewhere?"

"Huh? Did you say something?" Lilie asked, her voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd and the parade itself.

Raising her voice, Duck yelled, "I said, do you guys want to have lunch right now?"

Lilie shook her head and Pique shouted back, "If we leave our spot now we won't be able to get a good view of Santa Claus when he arrives!"

"Oh..." Duck settled back into her spot and tried to ignore the growing hunger pain in her stomach. _It'll be over soon, and I don't want to miss the last part after having come all this way_ , she thought to herself. But her hunger pain only grew more pronounced and it became harder and harder for Duck to ignore the pinched feeling in her abdomen. Hoping for a quick bite, Duck stood up on her tiptoes to survey her surroundings. Looking behind her, she saw a small hot dog stand in the building behind them. There were other people there buying and eating food, and the sight of that alone made the rumbling more acute. Giving in to her body's demands, Duck tapped Pique on the shoulder and shouted, "I'm going to go buy some food, I'll be right back!"

Too hungry to bothering confirming whether Pique heard her, Duck turned and wiggled her way out of the crowd before running up to the stand. Pulling out a few coins, she soon had a juicy hot dog in her hands. Not bothering with condiments, the red haired girl quickly devoured the food, only to realize she was still hungry. Two more hot dogs later and finally beginning to feel like her usual self, Duck turned down the street to rejoin her friends. Only getting out of this crowd was easier than getting back in. Standing on tip toes again, Duck tried to find her friends where she remembered they had been, but due to her short stature and the thickness of the crowd she could not make out where Pique and Lilie were. Elbowing her way wouldn't help any if she couldn't even see them, Duck reasoned, and jumped up a few times in another attempt at spotting her friends.

A flash of white out of the corner of her eye caught Duck's attention. She stopped jumping. In fact, she almost stopped breathing. Across the street from the hot dog stand a man in white appeared out of a flower shop, a bouquet of bright red roses in hand, accompanied by a tall man dressed in black closely behind him.

Duck's breath nearly caught in her throat as she continued to stare. The man in white wore a hat, the same hat, Duck realized, that she had seen days ago in that dark alley. There was no mistake; these were two of the people she saw that night. Whether it was coincidence or fate that brought her near him again she could not say, but Duck found herself looking intently at the man's face. So it happened that as a black Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost pulled up in front of the men, the man in white lifted his face and the clear sunlight lit up his face, allowing her an unobstructed view of his features for the first time. But the moment ended just as quickly as it happened when the tall man opened the door of the car for him and he ducked inside, the car door closing behind him. The tall man then climbed into the front passenger seat and the vehicle began to move away.

Duck opened her mouth to call it to a stop, then realized what she was about to do and clamped her mouth shut. Through the backseat window she could still make out the pale outline of the mobster's head, and hoping to catch another glimpse of him, she dashed across the street, trying to catch the car before it turned onto the main street parallel to the parade route. She ran up to the intersection but in her rush she didn't turn to see the car coming at her. A sharp painful tug on her braid pulled her back from the near collision as the car that would've hit her pass by with a blaring blast from its horn.

"Ow!" Duck reached behind her head and massaged her abused scalp before turning to see Fakir, his hand still clasped tightly around the end of her braid.

"What are you—!" Duck was about to shout, but Fakir beat her to it.

"What were you doing? Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed by running into traffic?"

"No I wasn't!" Duck tugged her braid free from Fakir's hand, suddenly feeling the adrenaline coursing through her after the near accident. "I-I didn't notice the car coming at me because I saw two of the men from the other night!"

"What?"

Duck pointed to the Silver Ghost which was fast disappearing down the street. "I saw two men come out of a flower shop and get into a car—"

Before Duck could finish speaking Fakir had taken off in the direction she was pointing at. The car had stopped at a red light and Fakir was just able to make out its plate number before it started up and drove off again, leaving Fakir and Duck in its proverbial dust. Fakir rushed to pull out a small palm-sized notebook and his pen and jotted down the license plate number as Duck caught up with him.

"Did you by any chance get a better look at them this time?" Fakir asked.

"Only the person you call 'Principe'. He has layered white hair, to about here," Duck indicated with her hand. "And his skin was fair, almost doll-like, I would say."

"Doll-like?" Fakir frowned. Where had he heard that description before?

Duck nodded. "I still couldn't see what color his eyes are, but from the quick glimpse I caught of him that's what I remember." Hesitantly, she asked, "But that's about all I saw. He only looked up for a split second so I couldn't get a very good look."

"That's fine." Holding up the notebook with the license place number, Fakir felt a rush of energy in his veins. But the echo of that doll-like description still nagged at the edge of his mind, like a memory just beyond reach. He pushed the feeling away irritatedly and looked at Duck. "With this number we'll be able to find out who that car belongs to. That'll tell us who Principe's associate is."

Duck nodded mutely and the two of them stood silently on the sidewalk, both waiting for the rush of adrenaline to pass. Finally Duck said sheepishly, "So...how did you manage to find me?"

Fakir glanced at her and snorted. "Trying to trick me into thinking you weren't going anywhere for the day, huh? Well I saw you leave the building from my window and followed you as far as your store. Edel told me you were coming to see the parade at Herald Square and I came here to look for you."

Duck narrowed her eyes, "You must've been a blood hound or something in another life, because the way you keep following me is uncanny."

"Blame your hair," Fakir tipped his chin at her braid. "It makes you stand out like a sore thumb in a crowd. I recognized it as soon as I took one glance down the street."

Indignant, Duck touched her hair defensively. "Still, you didn't have to yank on it!"

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "And leave you to get run over by that car?"

"I—" Duck closed her mouth. He was right, if he hadn't pulled her back she would've been run over for sure, and that's when it dawned on her that Fakir had in fact saved her life. Still miffed about having her hair pulled and being found despite her plans, Duck had to grudgingly admit that if he hadn't arrived at that moment she would've been in serious trouble. Her mother had always told her to thank people for their help, no matter how big or small, and even though Duck resisted the idea of thanking Fakir, her mother's influence on her was strong and so in a soft, barely audible voice, she muttered, "Thank you..."

"What?" The noise from the crowd, a throng of cheering voices as the parade came to a close, buried Duck's voice as Fakir strained to hear what she was trying to say.

"I said, THANK YOU!" Duck bellowed into Fakir's face, which combined with the last crescendo of cacophony from the crowd nearby, nearly deafened him.

"Jesus Christ! You didn't have to say it that loud!"

"It's your fault you didn't hear me the first time I said it!" Duck accused, not altogether justly.

Fakir was about to retort back but Lilie and Pique appeared in the dissolving crowd. "Duck!" Lilie waved, while Pique said, "Where did you go? You missed seeing Saint Nick being crowned!"*

"I told you guys I was going to get something to eat." Duck contested.

"Neither of us heard a thing. We thought you had disappeared into thin air! But it looks like you were simply spending some time with someone else!" Lilie and Pique nudged Duck in the ribs, twin sly grins on their faces and Duck suddenly realized Fakir was still there with them.

"I-no, ah, Fakir and I just sort of ran into each other! I don't—"

"Oh! So his name's Fakir! What an exotic name! Is he a young sheik? A prince from Arabia? You must tell us!"* Lilie jerked Duck's head towards her and gushed.

"I was wondering when you would introduce him to us! You really don't have to keep these things a secret from us you know," Pique said, her voice sounding slightly hurt which made Duck feeling even more awkward and confused by the whole situation.

Fakir on the other hand, observed Duck's interaction with her friend like a bystander observing a car accident, both a little disturbed and yet oddly fascinated by their rapid banter. Deciding retreat was the better part of valor, he tucked the notebook and pen back into his pocket and walked away without saying a word. Seeing him take off, Duck reached out her hand as if she wanted to say something to him before he left, only to realize she didn't know what she wanted to say and let her hand drop back down to her side. _He should've at least said good bye before he left_ , Duck grumbled half-heartedly to herself as her friends continued to talk around her. _Jerk._

* * *

In the dim interior of the Rolls-Royce Mytho sat with the bouquet he had bought next to him. The dark fragrance from the flowers permeated the cab of the car, making it feel eerily seductive in its sweetness.

"Roses, Mytho?" a deep, raspy voice inquired from the figure seated across from Mytho in the custom Silver Ghost.

Mytho smiled, and reached to finger one of the velvet soft petals. "To make up for being away from Rue so often in the past few weeks."

"I see..." the figure opposite Mytho said. The man was dressed in a black silk suit and a hat concealed half his face. His hands, large and bony, rest over the top of a walking stick. On his left ring finger the man wore a large gold ring depicting a raven with bright rubies for eyes and a sharp gaping mouth. "You would not have to make up for time lost had the job been done cleanly, Principe."

Mytho's smile vanished and his eyes became deathly calm while his hand abruptly plucked the petal he had been fingering from its blossom, balling it up into a pulp in his fist. "All the necessary people been paid off or quieted. Was there more this time?"

"Yes," the black figure's sentence was interrupted by a violent fit of coughs. Mytho reached into his pocket and offered the figure a white handkerchief which the man refused with a wave of his hand. Clearing his throat, the figure said with a wheeze. "But it is not so simple this time. I've just learned that there is apparently a witness to the hit on Alphonse."

Mytho's eyes narrowed. "Do we know who he or she is?"

"No. The police have been very careful with this one, and no one on our side has been able to get a peek at the files yet. But with a little more work, and some more dollars, it will only be a matter of time before we get a name."

Mytho acknowledged this solemnly, bowing his head. "I will take greater care in the future, Father. Please forgive me for my failure this time."

There was a long sigh from the aged figure. He reached forward and lifted up Mytho's chin with one hand. "If you wish to succeed in life, failure, no matter how small, is not an option. This is particularly true for us, in our line of business. You must not hesitate, or else what you want will forever be out of your reach."

His eyes closed, Mytho leaned forward and kissed the ring on the man's left hand. "I will do as you say, Father. And I will not fail."

* * *

The next day Duck and Fakir began their routine as they had for days now. As they walked one in front of the other, Duck found her mind wandering off to different distractions along the way to work instead of constantly fretting over Fakir's presence. Since the parade, she no longer felt edgy having him behind her. In fact it even set her mind at ease, knowing he was watching out for her close by. _Weird_ , Duck thought to herself as she made her way to C Street. _Maybe I'm starting to get use to him following me._

So lost was Duck in her own thoughts she didn't see Edel in front of the Stein Jewelry Store until she was practically at its doorstep. "Oh, good morning Miss Edel!" Duck chimed.

Edel smiled back and Duck was under the impression that her smile was deeper than usual somehow. "Come inside Duck, I have something to show you."

Duck's eyes perked up at this. Every once in a while Edel would come across a particularly nice jewel and would show it to Duck. "What did you get this time?" she asked as they entered her shop. Edel didn't respond, only walked around behind a counter and pulled out a small jewel case. Opening the case, Duck leaned in over the counter to see a gem, well, two gems actually, for they seemed to be fused together at one edge. The stones were heart-shaped, with one made out of a rich ruby and the other a spotless diamond. They sparkled beautifully in Edel's hand and Duck thought it was the most beautiful jewel she had ever seen.

"The jewel's name is 'Courage'," Duck looked up as Edel spoke, "it is a gem made of two."

"Do the individual stones themselves have names?" Duck wondered.

Edel gently closed the box and put the jewel back behind the counter. Smiling enigmatically, which only added to Duck's puzzlement, the jeweler answered, "Yes they do, and someday you will find out what they are, Duck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Macy's Thanksgiving Parade was originally called the Macy's Christmas Parade, and as you've probably guessed it, it started in 1924, the year this story is set in. The original parade route started in 145th Street and goes all the way to 34th Street where Herald Square, and the original Macy's store, stands. The organizers for the parade even borrowed animals from Central Park Zoo in addition to hiring live bands, acrobats, performers, floats, and other attractions. At the end of the first parade Santa Claus entered Herald Square where he was crowned "King of the Kiddies" on a balcony on the 34th Street store. And if you're wondering why I didn't mention any balloons in this fic, that's because they weren't included in the parade until 1927. ;) I wanted to get this chapter out by Thanksgiving to coincide with this year's parade, by sadly life and a brief bout of writer's block got in the way and it was delayed until now. D:
> 
> *A nod to the popular 1921 silent film, "The Sheik", staring Rudolph Valentino, the original movie heart throb.
> 
> Again, credit to HaleySings for betaing.


	5. Chapter 5

An evanescent trail of smoke drifted lazily from the cigarette sitting on the edge of the ashtray. Fakir picked up the half burned cigarette, inhaled, and released a stream of the same grayish smoke from between his lips. The street outside was just as gray, as snow had fallen the night before. The wet ice mixing with the grit made the city seem as if it had been covered by frozen ash under the silver full moon.

Despite it being Saturday, Fakir continued with his work. On his desk files lie opened, documents were stacked haphazardly in one corner, and the glossy faces of half a dozen black and white photos glared in the bright electric light from the desk lamp. Fakir picked up one of the photos, showing a geriatric man in a well tailored suit, surrounded by three bodyguards exiting a building. At the bottom of the photo in Fakir's handwriting was the name "Domenico Corvo" underlined with a sharp, swift stroke.

The car license number he had gotten last week had been traced back to Don Corvo, but without a positive ID of who was in the car there was no way to establish a credible link between the man Duck saw at the crime scene and the head of the Corvo family.

Fakir slapped the photo onto the desk. It always came back to him. _Principe_ , Fakir repeated the name in his mind. Leaning back against the hard wooden back of his chair, he thought about the description Duck had given him.

_...Layered white hair...and his skin was fair, almost doll-like._

Doll-like.

The feeling of déjà vu he had felt when Duck spoke those words to him gave way to a flash of recollection. The grass was lush and the sky was bright. As he crossed the crest of the hill a white mop of hair appeared, giving way to the back of a boy sitting on the spring grass, his face to the sun. A small noise, the source of which long lost to time, made the pale haired boy turn around, revealing smooth, creamy skin and round, amber eyes. Just like a porcelain doll, the ghostly echo of a thought whispered.

Fakir's eyes snapped open as his lips gasped, "Mytho..."

 _No, that's impossible._ Fakir shook his head mentally, frowned, and tapped the cigarette over the ashtray. _He's gone to go study ballet, like he'd always wanted to. He said he was going to New York, and_ —At this point Fakir had to physically shake his head several times to try and clear the thought from his mind. This is foolish, he told himself, but even as he tried to convince himself as such, he couldn't completely dismiss the uneasy feeling simmering in his chest.

Irritated by this feeling of anxiety, and stiff from sitting in front of his desk for half the day, Fakir sighed and ground out his cigarette. Running his hands through his hair, he realized how tired and grimy he felt, and wondered when was the last time he took a bath. Figuring a shower (even if it was a cold one, in the likely scenario that the building's water heater happened to be broken) would help to clear his mind, Fakir turned off the lamp, left a clean shirt on the bed to change into afterward, and went to gather what paraphernalia he needed before heading to the common bathroom down the hallway.

Duck meanwhile, had gone downstairs to pick up her mail, and grimaced at the bills she had in her hands.

"The electric bill came already? But I haven't gotten my paycheck yet!" She winced. _If I pay the bill I won't have enough for rent. Maybe I can pay half of the bill for now...but they might charge me for an incomplete payment. Oh!_ As Duck worked through her options she held up her apartment key to her door when suddenly the fuzzy hallway light above her gave out.

"Eh!" Duck looked up and in her moment of surprise the key fell from her hand and landed with two sequential "chink"s somewhere on the floor. "Oh, drat!" Duck heaved a heavy sigh in the dark.

Not knowing where her key might have fallen, Duck peered around her to no avail. As she fumbled blindly in the dark, her feet kicked against something and she caught a flash of something metallic skit across the floor, disappearing under the door next to her own.

Duck couldn't help but let out an exasperated moan. As if paying the bills wasn't problematic enough, she had just locked herself out of her apartment during a black out and her key was now somewhere behind Fakir's door. Swallowing her pride, she knocked on the door but no one answered. Thinking maybe he did not hear her, she knocked again, harder this time, but still there was no reply.

 _Great, the one time when I need him to be home he's not here!_ Duck crouched down to peered through the crack underneath his door. Squinting her eyes and pressing her cheek flush against the floor, Duck was only able to make out the foot of some table and chairs. Not knowing where Fakir had done and when he would return, Duck shrank at the thought of waiting in the cold, dark hallway for him or the electricity to return.

Her eyes still on the ground in front of Fakir's door, Duck remembered the spare key Fakir left under the thin doormat. She had thought the spare key to be completely unnecessary when Fakir first offered it to her, but this was an emergency, Duck reasoned to herself, and lifted up the rug.

The quiet interior of the dining room greeted her as she opened the door. With the electric lights off the vacant room was dimly illuminated by rectangles of street and moon light cutting through the frame of the windows. Looking around her, Duck walked slowly into the still apartment. She looked around at the floor, but did not see her key. Venturing further into the apartment, Duck check under the cabinets and lifted up the skirt of the table cloth but found nothing but dust.

Straightening her back, she looked behind her at the room across from the front door, which she guessed was Fakir's bedroom. If she had kicked the key hard enough it was possible the key might've made it all the way in there, but Duck hesitated. She had never been alone in a man's apartment before, much less a man's bedroom.

The red haired young woman blushed involuntarily. _This is a serious situation!_ she told herself, and she did not care for the idea of spending the night in the hallway because she couldn't locate her key.

The floorboards whispered softly as Duck stepped into the bedroom. A single steel-framed bed with neatly made bedding rested in one corner of the room. A tall wooden wardrobe stood guard next to a nightstand at the head of the bed, while a desk was set near the door, behind the foot end of the bed. Duck turned to her left and saw a bookshelf. With the window letting in enough light for her to read by, Duck skimmed the names of half a dozen volumes of legal text, tracing a finger under the solemn titles printed on the books' leather spines.

The novelty of being in a stranger's private room firmly distracting her from her task, Duck looked up and down the shelf but saw not one novel or work of literature. _I know he's a stiff, but he can't possibly read just law books all the time, can he? Mm, maybe that explains why he's got such a dour personality,_ Duck mused as her eyes drifted from the shelf to the desk.

The photos laid out on the desk piqued Duck's interest and she walked up for a closer look. "Domenico Corvo," she read the name aloud when her eyes alighted on Don Corvo's portrait at the top of the pile.

"So this is the person Fakir's investigating..." Though he was a frail old man there was an edge to his eyes, evident even in the snapshot of him in daily life. Duck backed away from the pictures, feeling uncomfortable by the knowledge this was the person who ordered the murder she had witnessed. Looking away from the desk, Duck saw what she first thought was a cabinet, until she noticed the crank sticking out the side.

It was a Victrola phonograph, and judging by the polish of the wood and the shinny brass handle it was by far the newest piece of furniture in the room. Duck bent down to admire the device as she had only seen the older horn-type models. Wondering what sort of music Fakir might listen to (an unpromising question, Duck grimaced, if she were to judge his tastes based on the contents of his stodgy bookshelf), she looked around her but didn't see any record cases laying around. Spotting an opened cardboard box beside the bookshelf, she wondered if the records might be kept there.

Instead, when Duck knelt down beside the box she found books, only unlike the law books on the shelf, these all appeared to be detective novels. " _The Moonstone_ , _The Mystery of Marie Roget_..."* Duck could make out the titles of books at the top of the stack, all classical titles for their genre. That answered her question about Fakir's reading habits (and alleviated some concerns about his taste), and being a detective himself, detective stories seemed a logical favorite, Duck reasoned as she gingerly picked up one particularly worn looking book. The novel's pages were yellowed and the edges worn and dog-eared. The paper was also wrinkled, showing signs of water damage. _He must've had these for a long time._ Duck opened the old novel and saw a line of writing on the inside of the cover.

_To our son, Fakir. Happy birthday._

Suddenly, footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway. Duck shot up at the sound and on instinct, looked around frantically for a place to hide.

There was the desk, but Fakir would find her as soon as he sat back down to work! Sweeping her eyes out the room, the space below the dinning table offered refuge. Duck started off for the dinning room, then realized she was still holding Fakir's book in her hand. Hurriedly putting it back in its box, she scrambled under the table cloth just as the door knob turned and Fakir, grumbling to himself, walked back in.

"The one time the water heater works the electricity goes out. If it's not one thing..." his voice faded into the bedroom she was perusing mere seconds ago. Duck lifted an edge of the table cloth to see Fakir standing with his back to her, a bath towel draped over his bare shoulders. Just as she looked out from her hiding place, lamenting the bind she had gotten herself into, Fakir reached up and pulled the towel away, revealing a wide swath of scar across his back.

The scar stretched from his right shoulder, crossed the small of his back, and disappeared beneath the waistline of his drawstring pants. Even in the weak light of the apartment she could make out the contours of the scar. The scar tissue was taut and its pale color stood out against Fakir's tanned complexion despite having the appearance of having healed long ago. When he shifted to reach for the shirt left on the bed, Duck could see the scar covered his right shoulder as well as the back of his upper right arm. It was as if liquid flames had been doused across his back, leaving it horribly marked forever.

Duck winced and she abruptly retracted her hand from the table cloth, feeling at once disquieted and stunned by what she had inadvertently witnessed.

 _How did he get those scars?_ she wondered, but even as part of her pondered the possibilities she knew it must have been something terrible. Sitting on her knees, Duck lowered her raised hand to the floor and her finger tips came into contact with something smooth and cold.

Duck looked down and the key that was the cause of her present predicament stared back at her from its hiding spot in the shadow of the table leg, which explained why she didn't spot it earlier during her initial search through the dining room. Relieved to have found her key at last, Duck was momentarily distracted from her thoughts on what she had just seen. She reached for the key but failed to notice the table leg in front of her. With a "thunk" she knocked her head against the wooden leg, drawing a sharp, involuntary "Ow!" from her throat.

Fakir jumped at the sudden noise. Reflexively, his hands went from the shirt he had been buttoning to the gun hidden under the pillow. Pointing the Colt revolver at the table, he cocked the gun and demanded firmly, "Whoever's there, come out with your hands up! _Now!_ "

"It's me, it's me!" Duck lifted her hands out from under the table cloth and waved frantically before sticking her head out. "Fakir, it's just me!"

At the sight of Duck, Fakir lowered his gun and gasped at her. "What are you doing in my apartment?" The thought that followed had him tightening his grip around the weapon as he grew tense again, "Did something happen? Did you notice something suspicious?"

Hurriedly, Duck shook her head; the sight of the loaded gun only heightening her nervousness. "No! No-no! I-I just lost my key when the lights went out! I uh, accidentally kicked it under your door in the dark and when I knocked and you didn't answer I used the spare key to come in to look, but then you came back in and I panicked an-and I hid under the table!" Her trail of explanation ended abruptly as she didn't know what else to say to him. She tried to meet his eyes, but her eyes involuntarily drifted to the scar underneath his half-buttoned shirt.

Duck abruptly turned around and groped for the front door knob. "B-but I've found it now! So I'll be going back then! Goodbye!" And with that she dashed out the apartment as fast as she could, jerking the door shut behind her.

Fakir sighed and took his finger off the trigger before putting the gun down on the desk.

"Moron," he said with an exasperated shake of his head. But something about the way Duck looked before she sped out of his room gave Fakir pause. She was looking straight at him, he reflected, except not at his face, but at his torso. Fakir's hands clutched the front of his half-opened shirt shut; his eyes narrowed. _It doesn't matter,_ he told himself resolutely before his fingers unclenched the fabric and returned to their task of buttoning up the shirt. _She doesn't know anything_.

* * *

Duck rushed back inside her apartment like a rabbit diving back into its burrow, nearly forgetting to pick up the letters she had left outside in the hallway. Once the door was closed, Duck buried her face in her palms and moaned into her hands.

 _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I was staring so obviously, he must've noticed!_ Though she might be scatterbrained at times, Duck had enough sense to know a scar like that wasn't something someone would want others to see, and even though she had seen it unwittingly Duck couldn't help but feel guilty about it, particularly when she had stared at it so conspicuously before making her quick retreat.

As her mood took a downhill spiral, a light music began to play, just audible above the background noise of the city. Duck removed her hands from her face, lifting her gaze to look out the window. The notes conjured a memory of a graceful figure dancing in a room walled by mirrors and lined by wooden barres. As a little girl with large blue eyes wide in wonder, she had watched the figure jump and twirl.

Duck's feet moved away from the door as she followed the musical trail to her bedroom window. Sliding the panel open, the young woman put her head out and a piano solo greeted her ears. Except, it was not played crisp and clear as on an instrument, but with the slight scratchiness of a phonograph.

Fakir sat by his window as the music trickled past him into the night. He had a towel draped over his shoulders and his elbow propped up on the sill as he smoked. At the sound of Duck opening her window he glanced at her and said disinterestedly, "What are you doing out here in the cold?"

Duck tensed. The awkwardness from earlier once again lifting its head and she fought back the urge to shut her window and hide behind her curtains. "I-you see...um, the music," she managed at last, "I was just reminded how...it sounds like the music my mother used to dance to."

With his eyes trained on the street below them, Fakir gave his cigarette a tap, letting the ash float down to the snow down below. "What was her name?"

Duck blinked several times in surprise, as she hadn't expected Fakir to respond, before answering, "Elsa."

Fakir blew a puff of smoke through his lips and raised his brows. "That's not a very Irish sounding name."

"My grandpa was German. He traveled throughout Europe, collecting folk stories and fairy tales, and ended up settling in Ireland where I was born." As she spoke Duck relaxed, and some of her usual indignation at Fakir's goading found its way back into her voice. "But it's not like your name sounds very Spanish-like either!"

"I am not Spanish," Fakir said curtly, "My family is Portuguese. There is a _big_ difference between the two."

"Oh..." Duck fell silent for a moment, then asked, "So what does it mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"Your name: 'Fakir'. What does it mean?"

Fakir didn't answer, and Duck was starting to wonder if he wasn't going to when he said quietly, "It's an Arabic word; it means someone who has miraculous abilities."*

Duck's brows knotted together at his explanation. "But you just said you're Portuguese!"

"I am!" Fakir snapped exasperatedly.

"But you said your name is _Arabic_!"

Fakir heaved a long sigh and took a puff of his cigarette. When he spoke his voice was soft, softer than Duck had ever heard him before. "My mother gave me my name. She's Moorish, which means she's Arabic," Fakir clarified when he saw Duck's expression descending into confusion once again.

"Oh, I see..." Duck nodded in feigned comprehension. "But what does—"

Before Duck could continue with her question Fakir cut her off. "Aren't you cold? It's winter and you're letting the cold air into your apartment." He rubbed out the spent cigarette on the concrete sill. "Now go back inside before you catch a cold."

Duck stood there, agape at the sudden dismissal. Pointing her finger at him, she huffed, "You should talk! Your hair's still damp but you've been sitting out here longer than I have!"

"What I do is of no concern to you," Fakir answered dismissively.

But this time his imperious attitude failed to intimidate Duck. Taking a chair from her room, she sat down defiantly in front of her window and Fakir could do little more than glare at her.

"Don't think just because you're a cop you can boss me around!" She folded her arms on the chilly sill and rested her chin in her arms. "And I want to listen to the music some more," she said more quietly, her voice muffled by her sleeves. "The song you're playing bring back memories of Ma when I was young."

Fakir showed no sign of moving from his spot either, and reached into his pocket and tapped out another cigarette. "Are they good memories?" He asked, striking a flame on the lighter.

Duck smiled at the gray but beautiful city, at the pedestrians traversing through the street below them, and at the music that buoyed her memories. "Yes, they are. Back then Ma worked at Mr. Kotin's pointe store during the day and taught ballet at the Crown Dance Studio at night. Before I was old enough to stay home by myself I would go to the studio after school and watch. Ma used to be a ballerina back in Ireland. She once played the lead role in a production of _Swan Lake_ and that's a role only a true prima donna can perform! Besides her skill she was also a really nice person, so all of her students loved her very much and really enjoyed her class. Ma also tried to teach me to dance, but I didn't have the talent she had."

At this Duck chuckled and scratched her cheek sheepishly. "In fact I was so bad some of her students didn't believe I was her daughter at first. I can't blame them though. Even though I look a lot like Ma I'm her complete opposite. Some times I even wonder..." Duck uncharacteristically demurred before she continued in a small voice, "...I wonder, if it's because of me...that Ma stopped dancing professionally."

Fakir studied Duck but the young woman did not notice his eyes on her. "Why do you think that?"

Duck frowned. "I don't know. It's just...Ma was doing really well back in Europe. She was a budding young prima donna but retired when she had me." Duck's thoughts drifted to the signed photograph of her mother as Odette. "If she didn't have me, and if she hadn't passed away when she did...I'm sure she would be famous now. Because of me Ma gave up what she loved, gave up her future because of me."

_Because of me._

The thought quivered in Duck's heart, resonating with echoes of regret. _If Ma hadn't worked so hard to raise me she might not have gotten sick, and she would still be here today, smiling, dancing...living._

"You're thinking too much."

Duck looked up at Fakir, startled by his clear, certain tone. "How do you know that that's—"

This time she was once again cut off by Fakir, who shifted in his position by the window but kept his gaze tuned to the black-blue velvet night sky. "Parents love their children more than anything. If your mother gave up her career it must mean she loved you more than dance, that you were more important to her than fame."

Duck unfolded her arms and looked at the worn toe shoes and photographs sitting on the cabinet. The woman in the Odette costume was beautiful and graceful, but the woman Duck knew, the one who shared a warm smile and a gentle, steady embrace with her was the woman Duck knew as her mother. There was no question in Duck's mind that her mother loved her; that was a truth as solid as bedrock, as certain as the cycling seasons. Duck did not know if her mother would've have been happier had she continued with her career, but what the young woman _did_ know was that her mother was happy and Duck was happy.

The music on the phonograph wound to a stop, leaving only the skipping noise of the stylus running on the edge of the record. Fakir stirred and left his window side perch. "Well, that's it. Or do you intend to keep sitting there and catch pneumonia?"

Duck shuffled the chair back and sat up reluctantly, but her eyes were bright and clear again as she said, "Fine, I'm going, I'm going. Still," she faced Fakir and smiled sincerely, "I really enjoyed the music. It was nice listening to the Victrola."

Fakir, who was in the process of closing his window, stopped and looked at Duck askance. "Wait, how do you know the phonograph is a Victrola?"

Duck froze as she realized she had just given herself away. "Oh! I-I guessed!" She laughed nervously. "T-they're pretty popular, so I thought may-maybe that's the model you have!"

Fakir looked at her darkly and Duck felt herself beginning to sweat despite the cold air. At last Fakir dismissed the matter and shrugged. In a gruff voice, he muttered "Good night," and closed his window.

"Good night!" Duck squawked. Behind her the dinning room light blinked several times before turning back on and the darkness in the apartment beat a hasty retreat. By now the cold had edged its frosty tendrils throughout her apartment and Duck moved quickly to close her window. She paused and gave Fakir's window one last look. Duck decided despite his prickly nature it seemed Fakir wasn't such a bad person after all. Smiling, she pulled the pane down and drew the curtains on this eventful evening.

* * *

The following Sunday morning was crisp and cool. A lone figure approached 1750 Lake Avenue, stopping just short of the steps. Dressed in a woolen coat and hat, a leather brief case in hand, the young man adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose as he cast critical violet eyes over the building's aged brick facade. Retrieving a crisply folded note from his coat pocket, the bespectacled young man read out, "Fakir Romeiras, apartment 514, 1750 Lake Ave."

Having double checked the address, a sparkle entered the young man's eyes, not altogether from the reflected light of the raising sun, as he smiled and ascended the steps into the apartment building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Moonstone and The Mystery of Marie Roget are mystery novels from the mid 19th century, written by Wilkie Collins and Edgar Allan Poe, respectively.
> 
> The meaning Fakir gave is the technical definition of his name, as a "fakir" is a mystic who can perform magic and feats of endurance. I know Ikuko Itoh said she gave Fakir that name because she felt it sounded mysterious, and in the context of the series it is a fitting name for someone who can miraculously turn stories into reality. Here though, I admit making Fakir Moorish-Portuguese-American is a bit of a stretch (the word "fakir" in English usually refer to Indian ascetics, and the Moors were expelled from Portugal over the course of many centuries) but the word is Arabic in origin, and there is the possibility that small communities of Moorish traders settled back in Portugal after the Reconquista. Thus, I plead my case!
> 
> Once again, much thanks to HaleySings for betaing!


	6. Chapter 6

A series of precisely spaced knocks interrupted Fakir's otherwise peaceful morning. Lethargically, Fakir went to the door and undid the deadbolt.

"My name is Autor Brahms, I'm—" the bespectacled young man at the door began, but with scarcely a glance at him Fakir was already closing the door.

"Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not interested."

Autor was taken aback for a second before he found his voice and spoke indignantly, "I am a journalist! Not a traveling salesman!"

Fakir's hand paused, peering at him from behind the half-opened door. "So?"

With a clear look of displeasure at Fakir's dismissive attitude, Autor composed himself and said, "I am here to talk to you about an important matter."

"And just how important is this for it to be worth my Sunday morning?"

At the question, Autor smiled. "I am here to talk to you about Domenico Corvo."

Fakir looked hard at Autor, measuring the newsman with his sharp green eyes before finally stepping aside and allowed him in. Once inside Fakir wordlessly gestured for him to sit down by the small dining room table. Autor removed his hat, and undid his scarf and gloves before placing them, along with his brief case, on the plain table. Fakir grabbed a chair across from him and sat down, eyes still locked on this stranger. Noticing his gaze, Autor scoffed. "No water for your guest?"

"An uninvited guest is not a guest," Fakir answered pointedly.

Autor shrugged and reached for his brief case. "Very well." He undid the clasps of the case and took out a thick envelope. Fakir watched as Autor spread the contents out on the table. There were pages of newspaper clippings, notes, and photographs; all organized together with the meticulous organization of a professional clerk. "Don't you find it ironic?" the bespectacled man said conversationally, "The Volstead Act that was meant to rescue mankind from the corruption of alcohol gave rise to the organized criminal enterprises that now plagues this country and continues to contribute to the delinquency of its citizens?" Autor sifted through the top of the documents and laid out several sheets on the table.

"40 years ago a man named Domenico Corvo came to Bronx from his native Sicily. A very business-minded and brilliant man, when the old city of Bronx was annexed into New York City, Domenico saw an opportunity in the real estate business and carved out an empire for himself.* However, he also had another 'business' on the side." Autor took out a yellowed newspaper clipping with the bold headline: "Three Unidentified Bodies Found in Hudson".

"When Domenico came to New York he did not forget his connection to the old world. He employed some of his fellow countrymen as agents who would extort protection money from businesses operating in his new territory, and pretty soon he had a piece in every shady business on this side of the river. But his empire really took off at the start of Prohibition and he became involved in smuggling and operating speakeasies, and there are rumors he's also getting a cut of the illicit drug market. He lives a secluded life as one of the city's elite, appearing occasionally at ritzy social gatherings and performances, and is a well known patron of the arts. Even so, he still maintains an iron grip over his kingdom. Anyone who dares to cross him find himself buried six feet under—alive, sometimes—and his underlings are absolutely loyal to him, be it out of fear or admiration."

Autor looked up and the surprise in Fakir's eyes brought a satisfied smirk to Autor's face. "How—" Fakir paused, thought better of his question, then continued, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"As I told you, I am a journalist. I'm writing an exposé on Domenico Corvo. He's very clever, and gathering just the information I'm showing you now has taken me many months of work. No one has any concrete proof that links Corvo to any of his deeds. But being a journalist rather than a member of law enforcement, certain information is off limits to me." Autor's confident demeanor faltered for a moment when he frowned. "I know the police are interested in him as well and that you people too are having a difficult time finding evidence to convict him with. This is only a fraction of the information I've gathered on him and I'm willing to share the rest if you—and the police—would be willing to share what you know with me."

Fakir was silently impressed with what he saw before him. Both the organization and breadth of Autor's collection was impressive, and from the newspaper clippings there were a few cases possibly connected to Corvo that the police had overlooked.

But like Autor himself had admitted, the envelope's contents were correlative at best, suggesting possible links but insubstantial enough that none of it would stand up in court. In Fakir's own investigation he had found a few interesting leads on the financial side of things, but that part of his work had been slow as a large portion of Domenico Corvo's assets was overseas and the police were still in the process of negotiating with the appropriate foreign agencies to gain access to the records.

Both Fakir and Autor must tread carefully however, as any false move on their part would alert the mob and their efforts would be in vain. Bringing their investigation to light before they've gathered sufficient evidence was akin to shooting oneself in the foot. More than that—it was suicidal.

This was both reckless and foolish, Fakir determined. If the mob caught wind of the exposé project Autor might find himself making the front page of his own newspaper one day. Better to have him put this idea out of his head before he got into trouble.

"Most of the information you have here is redundant," Fakir leaned back into his chair to appear uninterested. "It's true that we don't have a strong case against them right now, and it will take months—if not years—for the investigation to pan out and build a solid case against them. Publishing a story now with half-baked evidence will convince no one, and you'll only make a fool of yourself. You also do realize that by putting this story out there you are setting yourself up as an enemy of Domenico Corvo. I don't think I need to tell you how dangerous this man is from the collection you have amassed here," Fakir tapped the documents.

Autor's lips drew thin, then swallowing his pride, argued, "The investigation is on going. I understand that this will take time but don't you think we can speed up the process if we join our resources? Together we can bring this villain to justice a lot faster than either of us could alone!"

"Like I already said, your information is redundant." His patience wearing thin, Fakir's voice rose. "What use do we have for things we already know? It's better to content yourself with another story; there must be plenty of other sordid tales in this city for you to write about."

Autor flinched and his expression was as if he had been slapped. "I see...that's how it is, is it?" He scrapped his chair back sharply and stood with violet eyes burning. "The police want to keep the glory for themselves, and so they leave the rest of us in an ignorance far more frightening than darkness itself."

The journalist gathered his papers and with narrowly controlled anger, shoved them back into the envelope and gathered the rest of his belongings. Fakir did not bother to stand and open the door for him as Autor turned his back to the detective, slamming the door loudly on his way out.

As Autor stormed out into the hallway he nearly collided with a brunette haired woman. Hurriedly stepping out of his way, she raised one gloved hand to hail him. "Excuse me, but could you tell me—" But Autor walked on toward the stairs without so much as a glance back, and she looked down at the slip of yellow notebook paper in her hand.

Walking up to Duck's door, she knocked and when Duck appeared by her door seconds later the woman asked, "Excuse me, but I was wondering if you know where I could find Fakir Rameiras."

Autor paused at the top of the stairs and looked back at the woman and Duck, the edge of the stairwell shielding him from their sight as he listened. "I was told he lives at this address," the woman continued, "but I must've written down the wrong apartment number because I don't see a 524 here."

"Oh! Fakir lives right next door," Duck walked out to guide the woman to Fakir's door. "I think he's home right now because I thought I heard him earlier," she said and knocked.

Her knuckles have barely tapped the door before it swung open and Fakir barked, "What do you want now? Didn't I make it clear to you that—!"

Stunned and affronted by the unexpectedly tirade, Duck shouted back. "What's gotten you all worked up this morning? It seems like every time I talk to you you're always rude, or loud, or both!"

When Duck didn't hear a retort from her usually contentious neighbor, she noticed Fakir staring past her at the woman in the hallway.

"Hello Fakir, it's been a while."

Fakir looked away, one hand in his pocket while the other mussed with his hair. "Rachel, what are you doing here?"

The corners of Rachel's mouth curled playfully. "To see you of course, silly."

Fakir groaned and Duck heard him mutter, "The one day I get a break, the world comes to my door step."

Pushing the door open fully, Fakir tilted his head to the interior of his apartment. "Come in. You won't mind drinking coffee out of a cracked mug, would you?"

"A cracked mug?" Duck said, aghast. "You can't let a guest drink out of a cracked mug! Don't you have any other cups?"

"No, I don't, and the sole reason it's cracked to begin with is because a certain _someone_ dashed off without telling me and made me chase after her when I was having my morning coffee!"

It took a few seconds for Duck to realize what Fakir was referring to and she lowered her head sheepishly. "I'll bring over some cups for you to use then, if you don't mind that is," Duck mumbled, with the last phrase directed at Rachel, who had been watching their exchange with a half concealed expression of surprise and amusement.

"Not at all. That's very kind of you, Miss..."

"Oh! My name is Duck."

To Duck's great relief Rachel's eyebrows didn't shoot up in bewilderment as others have, wondering if this was a pathetic joke or what could have inspired someone to name a girl after poultry. Nonetheless, Duck decided it was time to take her leave. After all, for this lady to speak so casually to Fakir they had to be close...maybe she was his girlfriend, and Duck felt awkward being the third wheel in their conversation.

"I'll bring them right now; give me just a moment!" She turned to go, but Rachel stopped her.

"Actually, I was wondering if you could join us, Duck."

Rachel's request surprised both Duck and Fakir, and Duck waved her hands about as a flush crept onto her cheeks. "Oh no! I-I don't want to intrude on your conversation!"

"On the contrary." Rachel smiled mysteriously, her amethyst eyes twinkling as she shifted her gaze from Duck to Fakir. "In fact I have something I would like to talk to both of you about."

As the group's conversation moved into Fakir's apartment, Autor's departure from his listening post went undetected.

* * *

Duck placed a cup of coffee before Rachel who nodded her thanks. Picking up her bone china cup, painted with intertwined peonies and rose buds, Rachel took a sip of the steaming hot liquid, hiding a smile behind her cup as she watched Fakir look down at the dainty porcelain dishware Duck placed in front of him with thinly masked chagrin. Evidently this wasn't what Fakir was expecting when Duck offered to bring drinking vessels.

Once Duck sat down with her own cup of coffee, Rachel said to the red haired girl, "How rude of me, I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Rachel, Fakir's cousin."

Duck had to make an effort not to gape. She hadn't expected someone related to Fakir to be so affable, so _polite_ , and the shop girl now noticed the gold band on Rachel's left ring finger which had previously been concealed by a glove. This revelation only made Duck blush at her previous assumption about their relationship. "Ah! I-I mean-! I didn't know Fakir you had family here in New York," she looked to her neighbor who merely huffed.

"You should've told us you moved; it would've saved my feet from a lot of walking yesterday," Rachel reprimanded gently.

"I have a lot of cases on my hands, and I forgot," Fakir sighed, "but what about yourself? I thought you were busy rehearsing for your new gig at the Met."

"That's exactly what I've come to see you about." Rachel placed her cup on its saucer. "The theater is producing _The Bartered Bride_ this season and this will be my first role as the leading soprano. On opening night there's going to be a large reception party to celebrate the performance and cast member may bring their own guests to the reception. Hans, my husband, will be coming of course, but I was hoping you—and Duck— would come as well."

Duck's eyes widened. "Me too?"

Rachel nodded affirmatively, and Duck still could not quite believe herself. "You are Fakir's friend and I would be so glad if you could attend."

Duck opened her mouth to clarify, but before she could make out the first word Fakir interjected. "Rachel, I have a pile of cases on my desk and new ones coming in almost every other day. I really don't think I can make it. If you really want me to hear it I can tune in to the radio."

"Fakir," Rachel made a reproachful face, "that's not the same as listening to an opera in concert. And besides," her expression softened, "it's only one evening. I know you're not particularly partial to opera but this performance means a lot to me. Won't you indulge me this one time? Surly you can set aside one evening for this."

Fakir fidgeted uncomfortably and seeing him wavering, Rachel added, "Our sponsors and board members will be there and they've also invited the mayor and the police commissioner to the event. It might be good for you to meet some of these people. And I think—"

"Board members?" Fakir started. _Wait a minute,_ his mind raced to something Autor had said earlier in the day. _"...Appearing occasionally at ritzy social gatherings and performances,_ _and is a well known patron of the arts_ _."_

He had nearly forgotten that Dominico Corvo was a member of the New York Metropolitan Opera's board of directors, a position the old man had achieved more for his infusion of money than any artistic sense he brought to the company. While Corvo was not an artist or a musician he had a thorough understanding of the prestige and connections that came with swimming within that circle. If this event was as Rachel suggested it to be and if there was to be a great deal of important people present, then just maybe...

When Fakir looked up sharply he announced, to the surprise of the others at the table, "Never mind what I said earlier; I'll ask the captain for a day off and we'll be there."

Before Duck could process the word "we" in his sentence, Fakir turned to her. "Do you have an evening gown?"

Duck just blinked at him, which was answer enough for the detective. He turned back to Rachel. "Do you think you could help her with getting a dress for the event? She'll be coming with me."

Duck's jaw dropped. Rachel was equally shocked by her cousin's sudden intent to participate in the event, but managed to say, "Oh. Well, yes, sure. But shouldn't you ask if Duck would be coming first?"

"Exactly! I didn't even say I was going yet!" Despite her outrage, Duck found her face turning fretfully from pink to scarlet. The idea of attending a beautiful opera was certainly enticing, but the thought of having to mingle with the rich and famous was too much for a simple shop girl like Duck. She had no idea how to act and what to say in front of these people and here Fakir was, ready to thrust her in their midst without so much as asking for her opinion.

Abruptly, Fakir grabbed her wrist and the tea pot-cum-coffee pot, and with a terse, "The coffee's getting cold. We'll make some more; wait here," to Rachel, disappeared into the small adjoining kitchen before his bewildered cousin could protest that the coffee was still warm, or why it would require two people to make the beverage.

Once Duck's foot was inside the small room, Fakir bumped the door close to keep their voices to themselves. But Duck did not care about what he was trying to do in the least. By now the red haired girl was absolutely furious and yanked her hand from his grip as soon as she set foot on the tiled floor.

"What are you doing! First you say you _don't_ want to go, now you all of a sudden _want_ to go and want to drag me along _with you_!"

"Shhh!" Fakir whispered sharply. "She'll hear you!" Remembering Rachel's presence, Duck lowered her voice but she continued to glare daggers at Fakir, who ignored her glower and set the tea pot down before reaching for the kettle on the stove.

"What is this all about anyway? Why can't we say this in front of Rachel?"

Speaking over the sound of running water filling the kettle, Fakir explained, "Dominico Corvo is a member of the New York Metropolitan Opera's board of directors. If this performance is as Rachel says it is chances are he'll be coming to the opera and the party." He turned the faucet off and looked at Duck, "And that means it's possible that Principe will be there as well."

The anger fled Duck's voice, replaced by a quiver of uncertainty. "You mean you want me to identify him there? At the party?"

"It's a long shot," Fakir admitted. "But it's the only thing resembling a chance that we have right now."

Duck grimaced. She did want to go, not for the celebrities or the glitz and glamour, but for the performance; for a chance to see something beautiful and wonderful, something she would not be able to afford without this invitation.

Yet the edge of apprehension dogged her still despite her eagerness to take Rachel on her offer. Ever since the proposition of identifying the man they knew as Principe had been set before her, Duck had been torn by the thought of coming face to face with that person again. After all, he had supervised the murder of a man in cold blood, and yet...

Duck drew her hands to her chest. When she caught a glimpse of him at the parade her feet had chased after him, all for another look at the elusive eyes always hidden from her from the gloom of a dimly lit ally or behind the brim of a hat. Maybe that's why she couldn't get the thought of him out of her mind. The need to know whether this beautiful man, whose appearance was as princely as his name suggested, has the eyes of a man or a beast. It was the possibility of the latter that frightened Duck, and yet she still wanted to know. And this was her chance.

"I..."

Fakir turned to look at Duck, her hands playing nervously with a loose thread on her blouse.

"I'll go...I said I'll go, so I will!"

At the last word Duck's eyes shot up, startling Fakir. He had expected to cajole, goad, and bully her into going along with his plan. Instead she had surprised him with her assertive answer. He wanted to remind her of the potential dangers, how with one ill-phrased question she could expose her identity to Principe, to the mob, which Fakir was sure would have a presence at the event, albeit in the shadows. Of course, this was assuming they didn't know about her already. Maybe it would be better to call this off; a plan based on a hunch and good luck wasn't worth risking your star witness on. But the determination in Duck's voice told Fakir she had made up her mind, and if he had learned anything about this girl in the past weeks it was her tenacity.

There was something else too, something that had been bothering Fakir. The silhouette of a boy kept emerging from the depth of his memory and try as he might to dismiss the thought the unsettling feeling would not go away. More than identifying his suspect, a part of Fakir acknowledged that seeing the true face of Principe would put his mind at ease.

"Good," Fakir said over the whistling kettle which he took off the stove. "Make sure to wear something appropriate but low-key for the event. You need to keep your eyes open but others must see you without noticing you."

"Um, what do you mean by appropriate?" In Duck's mind opera conjured images of men in perfectly pressed suits, top hats and monocles, accompanied by women with fur boas and silk gowns. Somehow she couldn't envision herself walking around with a dead seal's pelt wrapped around her neck.

A cloud of steam rose up from the counter as Fakir went about the task of brewing the coffee. "An evening gown of some sort, but Rachel will help you with that."

"What about you?"

"I have a tailcoat from Rachel's wedding. It hasn't been worn in years and will need to be cleaned, but other than that there shouldn't be a problem on my end." He picked up the coffee laden tea pot and paused at the kitchen door.

Seeing Fakir with the floral teapot in hand almost made Duck laugh, but she choked it back when she saw the dead-serious look in his eyes. "Remember: she mustn't know about the real reason for our plans. The less people that get involved in this the better."

Duck gave a firm nod at his severe warning. She knew what Fakir was really trying to say was, _I don't want_ her _to get involved in this_ , and Duck could sympathize with his concern.

When the kitchen door opened and Duck returned with Fakir to the dining room, Rachel looked up from her hands on the table. She raised her brows but said with a smile, "You really didn't have to make more coffee; there was plenty left in the pot still."

Fakir cleared his throat and picked up the thread of their conversation and said, "Yes, well…as I was saying, do you know a friend who might be able to lend her a dress for the party or anything?" He tilted his head at Duck. "We talked about it, and she's decided to come."

Rachel giggled at Fakir's awkwardness. "So that's what you two were chatting about behind that door! Do you have anything particular in mind, Duck?"

"A-anything's fine!" Duck sat up sharply in her chair and stammered. "I mean, I've never been to a large party and truth to tell, I'm a little embarrassed being around so many important people and I'd prefer not to stand out in a crowd…"

"What a pity. Because I don't think you would look out of place at all, and you have such a nice figure." Duck blushed again at the compliment as Rachel considered the younger woman's request. "If it's something unobtrusive you want, in that case I think I might have something for you. It's an older dress that I have and the hemline will need to be adjusted, but it has a simple, elegant design and I think will look very flattering on you without making you stand out too much in a crowd, if that's what you're concerned about."

Relieved she wouldn't have to walk around with a dead animal's coat around her neck, Duck nodded. "Uh, yes, that would be great."

After further discussion, Duck agreed to meet Rachel to pick up the dress in a few days at the opera singer's home and a time was set for Fakir and Duck to be picked up for the performance. With the coffee in her cup truly cool by then, Rachel looked at her watch. "It's almost 12; I have to attend a dress rehearsal this afternoon so I'm afraid I have to go." Rising from her seat, Rachel smiled at Duck. "Thank you again Duck, for the coffee; it was a pleasure meeting you."

"Me too, I'm really glad to meet you as well," Duck replied sincerely.

At the door Rachel paused, reached out to clasped Fakir's arm, then leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I will see you at the concert, Fakir. Take care of yourself, mm?"

Fakir grunted and said, "I'll be fine."

Rachel shook her head and chuckled before bidding them good bye one last time and took her leave. Fakir and Duck watched from his doorway until Rachel's figure had disappeared down the stairwell.

"Rachel is a really nice person; I like her a lot." Duck said smiling to herself, and looked up at her neighbor.

Fakir gave a small snort, but by the upward tug on the corner of his lips, Duck thought he too agreed with her feelings on the teasing but loving opera singer.

* * *

"You're going?" Rue turned sharply from her seat on the settee. "What if a reporter takes your picture and that witness recognizes you from a newspaper? You'll be identified!"

Mytho gave a light shrug of his shoulders. Dressed in a dressing gown, he glanced back at Rue while his hand swirled the glass of illicit Scotch. "I want to make up for missing the party with you last time. I thought you'd be happy if we went to the party with Father."

Rue was aghast by Mytho's nonchalance to his present jeopardy. When she learned that a witness was present during Mytho's last hit job the anxiety she had been keeping bottled up inside her had exploded like an uncorked Champagne. Trying to give her nervous hands something to do, Rue reach for a cigarette and went about the ritual of lighting it on her ivory cigarette holder. "You can make it up some other time," the young actress said in a tight but controlled voice, "but we'll skip the party at the Met. There are too many people there and the risk is too great."

With his back to her, Rue heard Mytho chuckle as he said, "Ah, so you intend to hide me in the dark then." He laughed again, this time it made Rue look up at him as the sound sent a quiver down her back. "But that's what you wanted to do from the beginning: lock me in the darkness with you."

"What are you talking about?" Rue demanded snappishly.

The ice in Mytho's glass chinked as he raised it to his eyes to study the amber liquid. "Back when I first found out about Father's line of business I wanted to leave, but you convinced me to stay. Do you remember that night?"

Of course she remembered, Rue thought to herself and took a short puff of her cigarette. Mytho started out doing innocuous tasks like counting the number of crates delivered to a warehouse or helping to unload packages. The Corvo family usually hired unemployed, uneducated young men for these tasks, but through his daughter Don Corvo picked up on Mytho's diligence and intelligence. After two years Mytho found himself promoted from being a porter to being a courier, accompanying the goods his employer dealt in and making sure they reached the right hands. It was around that time that the Volstead Act was passed and Rue's father decided to extend his business ventures. It was also at that time that Mytho finally learned what was inside the crates he had been shuttling.

That night Rue had found him at the door to her house, looking nervous and worried, not unlike how she felt now, she thought ironically. After ushering him to the sitting room and dismissing the maid for the day, Rue had sat down next to him and exclaimed, "Mytho what's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost!" she slipped her hand over his but he refused to look at her.

"Rue…when you asked me to work for your father, did you know what exactly his business involves?"

At this question Rue froze, but she trained herself to relax and put on an innocent expression. "Of course I do. Daddy imports fancy things, like silk carpets from Asia and glass from France. I've told you this before haven't I?"

Mytho shifted uneasily in his seat. "Bobby and I were unloading some crates from the dock today when one accidentally tipped over. One side of the crate split open and when we went to survey the damage we saw several broken bottles inside, the liquid inside them had leaked all over the floor. Bobby said it smelled like whisky, and although I couldn't tell if that's what it was, I could tell it was some sort of alcohol. Our overseer then found us and told us not to tell anyone about the contents, or else he'd—"

"Oh, it was just a little accident, no need to get worried about it." Rue interjected. She reached out to touch his hair. "I'll tell Daddy this wasn't your fault and make sure no one will ever yell at you again."

Mytho shook his head and pulled away from Rue's hand. "That's not the issue, Rue! Selling alcohol is illegal now. What we're doing is breaking the law!"

"Daddy has been importing spirits and wines for years now. He can't just tell his old customers that he's all up and done with them just because a bunch of old women made a fuss and the government passed some silly law*," the heiress replied coolly.

Mytho said nothing for a long moment but his expression was grim. At last, he said quietly, "I don't know, Rue. This whole business…it makes me feel uneasy. Maybe I should leave and go find work somewhere else."

"And where would you go? What would you do?"

"I…I'll look around. New York is a big city and there are plenty of places looking for people to hire. I might even try going back to the studio and start dancing again; I don't want those years to go to waste."

"But the whole reason why you came to work here was because you couldn't find work else where, remember?"

"I knew someone at the studio; maybe she could help me…"

Rue scooted closer to him and cupping his cheeks with her hands, gently but firmly forced him to look at her. "Mytho, do you really want to leave me?"

Surprised by her questions, Mytho shook his head. "No, I don't. But what your father's doing—even if it's out of deference to old customers—is still wrong. I just can't…"

"You have no place to go, you have nothing here in this city. If you leave you will leave everything you've gained behind."

Looking into his eyes she saw the apprehension there, from both her words and from what he had learned that day. Seizing that vulnerable feeling in her hands, she knew she could use it to turn him around. "If you stay here with me you won't have to worry about where to go, how many dollars you'll have in your pockets, or where your next hot meal will come from. This job may be rough now, but Daddy just wants to see what you are capable of so he'll be able to put you to a task you're really suited for, and before you know it all these concerns will be behind you, nothing more than memories."

She reached up and kissed Mytho and the sweet scent of her perfume wafted over him. Breaking the kiss, their faces inches from another, Rue whispered, "We can keep this a secret; no one has to know any of this. So stay with me and don't go anywhere."

Mytho was torn, but at last he gave a small nod.

Back then Rue had smiled, her triumph glowing on her face as she embraced him. Now years later she felt herself embraced by a pair of arms and startled her out of her recollection.

"You were right, Rue. At that time I had nothing. You were the only one I had and so I stayed in the darkness with you. But I don't intend to stay here forever."

Mytho's arms fell away from her, leaving an empty gap between them. "I won't let anything nor anyone hold me back, even if it's you, Rue."

"But I gave you everything that you have!" Rue stood up, her face a storm of horror, anger, and despair. "I gave you my love; my heart. Are you going to abandon me now?"

"I won't abandon you." Mytho picked up her hand and gently kissed the pale knuckles. "After all, the blood on my hands, too, was given to me by you."

The house was still; the only noise was the faint sluggish chug from a boat as it worked its way up the river. It was a fragile silence, and Rue was afraid that by breaking it her world too would break. But it had to be done. She had to know.

"Do you resent me for that?"

"No." Mytho planted a chaste kiss on her ashen cheek. "In fact I am grateful to you. Because it was here in the darkness that I found things I would never have found in the light."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Bronx effectively became a borough of New York City in 1898. Previously it was a rural area but underwent modernization in the late 19th century and experienced a rapid growth in population in the first three decades of the 20th century.
> 
> * The Volstead Act (which defined the terms of the now repealed 18th Amendment) was passed in 1920. The Women's Christian Temperance Union was an important organization that promoted prohibition, and whose members were exclusively female in the early 20th century. Thus Rue's comment about "fussing old women".
> 
> I named Autor after the German composer, Johannes Brahms. Brahms is known for being a perfectionist and I can definitely see Autor as one too, seeing that he made an exact replica of Drosselmeyer's study in the anime. You might also be wondering why I'm using "Rachel" for Raetsel's name. Well, there is a reason for that, and if all goes according to plan I'll explain that in more detail in the next chapter. ;)
> 
> Many thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for proofreading!


	7. Chapter 7

The New York Public Library was like a second home for Autor. He had spent countless hours there reading and researching, gathering the knowledge he had amassed like a tree builds rings around its trunk, growing stronger and more confident with each passing day. But the soft pulpy wood of a young tree is fragile and Autor knew his research would not stand up to the media storm that would surely follow if he unveiled his findings now. He needed stronger evidence, more physical proof that the common sordid thread tying his collection of newspaper clippings together was in fact, the truth.

He had gone to Fakir, a detective—an undeserving title, Autor's mind interjected bitterly—in the hopes of joining forces. Instead he had been humiliated and belittled, his work dubbed as "correlative at best" when Autor knew it was so much more significant than that. However, his anger did not change his present dilemma, that of the lack of more supportive evidence. It did not help that, short of showing up at the police captain's door steps, Fakir was the only police officer with enough knowledge of the Corvo case to be of any help to him without attracting too much attention to Autor himself. But that bridge had now been burned, and after parting on less than friendly terms Autor was not keen on speaking to Fakir ever again.

Sitting in one of the large reading rooms, nearly empty at such a late hour, Autor tapped his pen against the hard wood of the table. Normally such repetitive noise would distract him from his work, but now he sat staring blankly at the sheets of clippings. He'd spent the day thinking of other options but had come up dry. The bespectacled journalist turned his thoughts to Fakir again and to the conversation he had overheard after recognizing the voice of the woman who had tried to hail him in the hallway.

Autor was certain had he been any more incensed, he would have never recognized her voice at all. Autor had been raised in a family of music lovers and although his current passion was for journalism, he would still attend the occasional symphony or opera on his own time when his schedule allowed, as well as cover particularly important performances for the news agency he worked for. The voice of up-and-coming prima donna Rachel Strauss was therefore not unfamiliar to him, but never did he imagine he would hear that voice in the hallway of a rundown tenement building!* Only when he heard her speak again, this time to Fakir's neighbor, did he do a double-take. Curious as to what brought the talented soprano to this part of the Bronx, Autor was surprised to hear her seeking the whereabouts of the man whose apartment he had just stormed out of. However, other than demonstrating her closeness to Fakir, her conversation failed to illuminate the reason for her visit. It was only after Autor paid a visit to the public records where he uncovered the singer's maiden name and checked the last programme he had retained from the Met did the mystery unravel.

But so what if the singer had invited her cousin to her imminent performance? It was an ordinary enough thing to do, and other than a curious coincidence the knowledge was useless to Autor. Breathing a deep sigh and absently pushing up his glasses, Autor decided there was no use sitting here, nursing his frustration. He picked up his pen and tucked it away in his suit pocket before putting the stack of material back into its envelope. Perhaps he was tired, since it was quite late, but as he moved to put the envelope away the packet slipped from his hand and the contents spilled out across the floor with a dull, fluttering, "flop".

Autor quickly bent down to pick up the documents, and exasperated as he was, he made sure to check each and every page to make sure nothing was wrinkled or torn from the fall. As he rearranged his collection back in order, Autor's gaze fell on a yellowed piece of news clipping and a familiar word caught his eye. The clipping was a small square of slightly smudged newsprint, and did not differ much from the others on the paper it was affixed to. But Autor examined it closely, reading and rereading the short article once, then twice, and for good measure, thrice.

At last he stood and looked at the title, which read in faded ink, "Victims of Double Homicide Identified".

* * *

A cold breeze was blowing, kicking up little whirls of snow that had fallen the night before. Duck rubbed her mittened hands together, her breath turning into a gray fog each time she exhaled into the frigid air as she walked up to an apartment building dusted with a coating of snow.

Rachel was already waiting for her, and as Duck bound up the steps the tall brunette opened the building door for Duck.

"Hello Duck," Rachel smiled and closed the door—and the cold—behind the smaller woman. "How have you been?"

"Good! How about yourself? Were you busy with rehearsals?"

"Fine, but busy as you said," Rachel chuckled as she lead Duck up to the second floor apartment she shared with her husband. "We had a bit of a scare last week when Thomas, our baritone, caught a cold. Luckily his doctor prescribed some tonic and now he's right as rain again."

"That's good." Duck smiled politely and walked into the older woman's sitting room. It was immediately apparent that Rachel's apartment was infinitely nicer than her own, as the building itself looked several decades newer and the interior was spacious and warm despite the bleak weather.

While Duck admired the décor her hands moved to remove the double layer of coats she wore. Rachel stepped into the hallway and turned to her guest, "I'll go make us some hot drinks. What would you like, dear? Coffee, hot cocoa, or tea?"

Duck looked up sharply and waved her hands. "Oh, I don't want to take up your time since you're busy!"

"There's no rehearsal today, and I practice in the afternoon so we have plenty of time." Rachel winked at her.

"Ah, I'll have the cocoa then, if you don't mind." Duck smiled at her hostess, a little embarrassed.

"No problem at all! Sit down; I'll be back in a moment." Rachel laughed in a light, lovely tone and Duck thought to herself how much she looked forward to hearing that beautiful voice sing at the opera.

Minutes later Duck was seated beside Rachel in the plush sofa, sipping hot cocoa and nibbling on the fresh pastel de nata Rachel had prepared beforehand.* After a few minutes of casual conversation, Rachel touched the corner of her mouth with her napkin and said, "I know you must be excited to see the dress. I'll go get it now so you can try it on."

"Mm!" Duck swallowed the pastry in her mouth and hurriedly dusted her hands on her skirt. "Sure!"

With her hostess in the lead, Duck walked into an unused guest room. On the bed was a dress box and Duck's breath caught when Rachel removed the lid and lifted the dress from its bedding of tissue paper.

The gown was made of chiffon the color of ripe apricot. On the left breast was a peony, sewn from the same sheer material, with strings of crystal beading hanging from below the blossom. The bottom of the dress was ruffled and a narrow band of delicate bead work circled above the swooshing folds. Duck had never seen something so beautiful before, and the thought that this was the dress she was going to put on felt surreal.

Rachel laid the dress on the mattress and turned to her guest. "Would you like me to help you put it on, or do you think you can manage by yourself?"

"Oh!" Blinking out of her trance, Duck squawked, "Ah-I'll be okay!"

"Alright, call me if you need help with anything," Rachel nodded before she retreated from the room.

"I will! Thank you!" Duck shouted back. Once the door was closed she reached out, carefully lifted up the dress to examine it more closely. The tiny crystal beads felt cool against her fingers and Duck marveled at the weight and shine of the fabric. A grin bloomed over Duck's face as she set down the gown and went about shedding her tweed skirt and worn blouse before pulling the dress over her head, fumbling for a few minutes with the buttons. Turning to inspect herself in the oval mirror, twirling around and watching the dress swirl with her movement, Duck let out a laugh of unbridled delight.

A brief knock came from the door as Rachel let herself back into the room. Seeing Duck's expression, she smiled. "You like it?"

"Oh I love it!" Duck beamed. "This is the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. Thank you so much Rachel!"

"Haha, you're welcome. I was a little worried the beading might be a little too much and whether the tailor could adjust the hemline despite the ruffles, but in the end I think it all worked out quite well. In fact," Rachel stepped back, tipping her head to one side and studied the effect of the dress on Duck, "...if you really like the dress, you can keep it if you would like."

Flabbergasted and speechless Duck had to make a conscious effort to close her jaws together before she gasped, "What-but-ah, are you sure?"

"It suits you, and Fakir mentioned you didn't have a gown. With this one you won't have to worry about what to wear for future formal events."

Duck doubted she'd ever attend another event where formal wear was required, but to actually own this dress was more than she could ever ask for. Duck's mouth drew into a broad grin. She turned to Rachel, the gown flowing with her as she moved, and in a voice of unabashed delight, hugged Rachel, "Oh thank you so, so much Rachel! I'll cherish it, I promise!"

Rachel laughed along with Duck. "You're welcome! Ah, we should also try to do something with your hair while you're here." She touched Duck's long braid which had come to rest over the girl's shoulder. "Girls now a day prefer their hairs short but I myself find long hair to be far more elegant."

"You think so?" Duck knew her hair style—and her wardrobe in general—was outdated, but Rachel's earlier compliments made Duck wonder if maybe she could do this gown justice and dress, if not as a movie star or a princess, at least like a proper lady when she walked into the opera house on opening night.

Rachel nodded. "It's quite easy actually, once you learn how to do it properly. I do it all the time with my own hair. Would you like me to show you?"

Duck nodded enthusiastically and sat in front of the small guest vanity as Rachel gathered combs and hair pins. Rachel untied the braid and with deft strokes of the silver comb began to straighten Duck's long locks.

Watching Rachel work and thinking about everything the woman had done for her Duck couldn't express how thankful she was. Here was a stranger who had not only invited her to a gala, but had given her a beautiful dress to wear, arranged a car to pick her up, even helped to do her hair. Duck was reminded of the fairy godmother in a story her granddad had told her, one who had turned a cinder maid into a princess for an evening. Duck blushed and mentally shook her head at her flight of fancy. Looking back at Rachel's reflection in the glass, Duck thought to herself, _Rachel has only just met me and yet she's done so much for me. I should do something to repay her. At the very least I should pay for the dress…_

With that in mind, Duck craned to look over her shoulder to look more directly at Rachel. "Rachel, how much does the dress cost?"

"Why do you ask?" Rachel raised her brows; her hands paused briefly from their task.

"Well," Duck twiddled her thumbs, "you've done so much for me, and I really want to repay you somehow for all your help. So let me pay you back for the dress…!" Duck stopped. On second thought, considering the material, the details, and the workmanship of the gown, the dress would probably cost two months worth of her meager shop girl salary. Short of living on bread and water for that amount of time, there was no way Duck could pay the full amount up-front, so she amended, "…Well, maybe not all at once, but at least let me pay you for the tailoring today!"

Rachel waved a hand, dismissing the suggestion. "No, no. It's no trouble at all! This is a gift, and gifts do not require reimbursements."

"But you went to so much trouble for me; I should at least pay you back for the adjustments!"

"It's fine, Duck. Please." The deep sigh that escaped Rachel's lips surprised Duck. She turned around fully to face the brunette and saw an expression crossed between relief and sadness on the singer's face. "Think of it as my way of thanking you," Rachel continued, "for being Fakir's friend, and for keeping him company."

Confused and taken aback, Duck had no clue what Rachel meant, but by the tone of her voice Duck knew there was no arguing the woman into accepting a single penny. Feeling awkward and a little culpable, Duck turned around to face the mirror, "I-I don't really talk to Fakir per say…it's more like he comes and bothers me all the time, so I wouldn't really call us friends or anything…"

Rachel chuckled. "Oh, I know. Fakir isn't the easiest person to get along with; even when we were growing up he was reserved but stubborn," Rachel spoke as she continued to work on Duck's hair. "But if you get to know him you'll see that he's like a hedgehog: prickly on the outside but sweet and cute on the inside."

Imagining a hedgehog in her mind, Duck was unable to equate the funny little animal with the grumpy, pain-in-the-neck Fakir she knew; or rather, she simply had trouble associating him with the word "cute". But Rachel's comment about his childhood prompted Duck to inquire, "So you grew up together with Fakir?"

"Yes. We spent a lot of time together when we were young. But after I went to study music and Fakir went to university we hardly saw each other except during the holidays."

"Where did you go to study music?"

"Let's see, I studied at a conservatory in Prague before the war. After that I studied with an instructor in Philadelphia, where I gave my first public performance. Have you ever been to Prague before?"

"Eh, no. I was born in Ireland, but I moved here when I was little and don't remember much about my time in Europe. Other than that I haven't been outside of New York."

"You should visit someday when you have the chance. And Philly is beautiful as well, particularly during the spring." Rachel stepped back and examined the result of her work. "It's finished. What do you think?"

Distracted by their conversation, Duck focused on her reflection and was amazed by what she saw. The previously unruly mop of copper hair had been coiled into a flat bun pined to the base of her neck, giving the illusion of a bobbed hairdo. Thoroughly impressed, Duck met the reflection of Rachel's eyes, and said, "You're really good at this, Rachel! Where did you learn to dress hair?"

"My mother was a hair dresser and she taught me how to do my hair when I was a little girl. My father on the other hand, was a music teacher. Though my mother insisted I would make a good living dressing hair my father was adamant about my studies. Guess who won that debate," Rachel said with a laugh.

At the topic of Rachel's parents, Duck remembered something Fakir had said the night of the apartment blackout but didn't have a chance to ask him. "What about Fakir's parents? Fakir said his mother was Moorish, or Arabic, or both, but...I'm not sure what he meant."

A look of surprise appeared on Rachel's face. "He told you this?"

Duck nodded and Rachel seemed to absorb this for a moment before her lips curled into a fond smile. Sitting down at the edge of the guest bed, she put the comb in her hand down on the bed cover and faced Duck.

"Amira, that was her name."

"Huh?" Duck blinked.

"Her name; Fakir's mother's," the singer explained. "She was a smart, lovely woman and was the daughter of a well-to-do merchant in the town where our family was from. However she was a Moor, which is the name for Arabs in Portugal. Auntie Amira converted when she fell in love with my uncle, Antonio. But there was a lot of opposition to the marriage within the family given her background. Initially my father too, was against the match. He's a quiet, conservative man and doesn't like to stand out, which is why he changed my name from 'Raquel' to 'Rachel' when we moved here, so I'd blend in better."

Duck nodded. That was a common enough practice amongst immigrants. Employers were less likely to hire someone with an unfamiliar foreign name than someone whose name they recognize and felt comfortable addressing. Still, Duck felt a little sad at the knowledge that Rachel had to give up her original name.

"My uncle on the other hand," Rachel recounted, "was far more outgoing and strong minded. He didn't care about the protest from within the family and married my auntie. They decided to come to the states so they could live in peace. At that time the economy was also doing poorly so my father and my uncle decided to move both our families and have a fresh start."

"So both your parents and Fakir's parents came to New York? What happened then?"

"From what I was told, my grandfather had left us a good sized inheritance when he passed away and my father and my uncle wanted to use the money to start a business here. However they couldn't agree on what kind of business since my father prefers the small town setting he grew up in and wanted to open a music school in Pennsylvania where land was cheaper, and he eventually did. My uncle on the other hand, had read a lot about New York before coming here and had fallen in love with the city, and with literature being one of his primary passions, he had decided to stay in the city and open a bookstore. Our families parted ways at Ellis Island and I didn't see them again for many years."

Rachel stopped when she saw the distressed look on Duck's face and comforted the girl by saying, "Oh, it wasn't because we disliked each other. After my uncle married, Father warmed up to auntie and came to appreciate her for her wit. It was settling down and getting established that took a great deal of time for both our families. It was several years before Father had engaged enough students and established a reputation for the school to secure a steady income. My mother's hair dressing work helped, but I imagine it was just as difficult, if not perhaps more so, for Fakir's parents in the city. In any case, the first time I visited my aunt and uncle in New York was for Christmas, in 1908 I think, yes, that was it. My parents had visited them a few times before, briefly, but that year was the first time I met my cousin. He was reading by the window when I first caught sight of him, completely absorbed in his book."

Recalling the box of detective novels in Fakir's room, Duck wondered aloud, "Was he reading a detective novel?"

"Why yes, he was." Rachel answered, surprised. "Fakir loved mystery and detective adventures when he was a boy. In fact, for Christmases and birthdays that was all he would ask for from his parents. How did you guess?"

"I…" Duck paused. She couldn't very well tell Rachel she'd snuck into her cousin's bedroom and found the books. Instead, she answered weakly, "He-he's a detective, so I thought he might like detective stories."

Trying to steer the topic away from her curious insight into Fakir's reading habits, Duck asked, "You mentioned Fakir's father opened a bookstore in New York but Fakir never said anything about that. Where's his store, or has he retired already?"

The soprano's lips drew thin in hesitation. At last she sighed deeply and said softly, "Uncle and auntie passed away not long after I visited them for the first time, when Fakir was still young. He came to live with my family after their death and...that's why we spent so much time together as children."

Duck didn't know what to say in the face of that revelation. In hindsight, she hadn't realized until now that when speaking about her uncle and aunt Rachel had always used the past tense, which only made Duck feel all the more guilty for her insensitive questions. But another thought fleeted into the young woman's mind, the image of Fakir's scarred back. She had wondered what inflicted the wound that created the scar and an unsettling feeling grew in the pit of her stomach, though she could not explain why.

The touch of Rachel's hand on hers jolted Duck out of her dark thoughts as the brunette smiled sadly at her.

"I—! I'm so sorry! That was thoughtless of me, asking you so many questions," Duck whispered, unable to meet Rachel's eyes.

"You didn't know, so there is nothing to apologize for," Rachel said gently and patted the girl's hands.

She then stood up and with a motion of dusting off her wrinkle-less skirt, said in a more cheerful tone, "Let's finish putting together your outfit. Do you have any accessories, like a necklace or a bracelet? I could lend you something if you'd like." Rachel moved to get her jewelry box but Duck called out to her.

"Oh, you don't have to do that! I do have something to wear, sort of. I have a garnet pendant, but it's my mother's." Duck lowered her head, "Actually...she also passed away many years ago, but I don't think she would mind. It'll just be a little weird for me to wear it because…well, it was an engagement present from my Pa before they got married," Duck looked up at Rachel and, scratching her chin, managed a giggle as her cheeks blushed involuntarily.

Rachel leaned her shoulder against the frame of the door. Gently, she asked, "If you don't mind me asking, what was your mother like?"

Duck's mood brightened at the question and she answered animatedly, "Sure! Let's see, well, first of all Ma was a very beautiful and nice person. Everyone who met her liked her a lot. She was also really talented in ballet and used to be a prima ballerina in Europe. After we moved she taught ballet here in New York."

"What a coincidence! Did you know Fakir also has a friend who is a ballet dancer?"

"He's never told me about any friends of his." Although Duck had to admit, she didn't think he would have very many, given his personality.

Rachel seemed to pick up on this and gave a knowing nod. "Fakir did not have many friends growing up, but he did have one constant companion: a boy from the local orphanage who aspired to be a dancer. Fakir would join his friend to peek in on the dance classes given by a retired dance instructor in our town and would later sit and watch as his friend practiced what they saw. Though he himself never danced he was always content to watch."

That explained why the records Fakir was listening to reminded Duck of her mother, she realized: because they were the type of piano music used during ballet practice. Duck wondered if Fakir remembered his friend when he played those records and an ominous thought loomed in Duck's mind and she asked hesitantly, "What happened to that boy? Is he still alright?"

To Duck's relief, Rachel said, "He had gone off to study dance professionally some years ago. Unfortunately, I haven't heard from him since."

"In that case, I hope he's doing well, and that Fakir will see him again one day soon," Duck said optimistically. "Maybe when they meet again he will be famous and the two of them will have lots of things to catch up on!"

"Perhaps," Rachel smiled. "If they're destined to meet again then I am sure they will."

* * *

Fakir walked away from the window when he saw the Essex sedan Rachel had arranged for them pull up to the curbside.* Grabbing his coat from the back of the desk chair, he closed his apartment door and in one step was knocking on Duck's door.

"I'm coming!" Duck's voice was muffled by the sound of a loud bang and a thud and Fakir wondered not for the first time how this clumsy girl managed to get by all these years, living by herself.

As he stood contemplating that thought, Duck opened her door, babbling an apology as she tried to find her key in her purse. "I'm sorry! One of my earrings rolled under the bed but I couldn't reach it so I tried to use a rolling pin to get it out but it wasn't long enough so I..."

Fakir rolled his eyes at her unpunctuated stream of words. He was about to make a sardonic remark but the words died on the tip of his tongue when his vision focused on Duck's person. Her hair neatly done in the style Rachel had taught her and the warm apricot-colored gown peaking out from beneath the unbuttoned long gray coat, for a second Fakir did not recognize the person in front of him as the klutzy, plain Duck he'd known for the past weeks. So distracted by her appearance, Fakir almost didn't hear Duck speaking to him.

"Is something wrong Fakir?" She peered at him questioningly.

"Ah—nothing," Fakir cleared his throat. "Isn't this dress is a bit too flashy? You'll stand out at the party this way."

"You think so?" Duck examined herself and chewed on her lower lip. "Rachel said it looked nice on me so I thought it would be alright."

Grudgingly, Fakir had to admit he was being unfair in his assessment. The beading, while adding a highlight to the gown, was far from the loud, gaudy dresses some women were want to wear nowadays, and other than the red, glassy pendant at Duck's throat she wore no other accessory beside the small pearl earrings that were mostly hidden by her hair. If anything, she would be considered _under dressed_ for the event they were attending. Yet Fakir couldn't ignore how the light rouge on her cheeks made the sparkling blue of her eyes stand out, or how the weight of the fabric accentuated her flat chest, pronouncing her unintentionally fashionable figure.

This last thought made Fakir turn his head away sharply, but he couldn't suppress the blush flooding across his own cheeks.

"Uh, never mind." Turning away abruptly, Fakir made wide strides towards the stairwell.

Duck made haste to follow him, shouting, "H-hey, wait for me!" while trying not to trip over her shoes.

* * *

The ride to the theater was conducted in silence, with Fakir sitting beside but looking away from Duck. Duck hardly noticed however, as she felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach the whole time she was in the car. Twisting a button on her woolen coat until it nearly popped off, a bright yellow glow from outside the car window stopped her hands and Duck caught sight of the opera house. Cars and taxis pulled up to the curb next to the theater entrance and Duck marveled at the sight before her as their vehicle pulled into the queue.

The lamps along the street bathed everything in a warm yellow glow, and when reflected off the building's sandy facade gave the structure the illusion that it was glowing. Below the blue canopy, men decked out in black and white suits and women in rich gowns waltzed leisurely towards the entrance, guided by the lush red carpet under their feet. When it was their turn to disembark, Duck gingerly stepped out of the car, her hands clutching the matching beaded purse to her chest. She would have stood there rooted to the ground had she not felt Fakir's hand on her elbow.

"Don't worry; I'll be there with you the whole time," he said, gazing intently at the entrance before meeting Duck's eyes.

Seeing Fakir's steady gaze, the butterflies that had been flying wildly inside of her settled, and taking a deep breath, Duck stepped forward to join the ranks of the other guests with Fakir at her side.

As Fakir and Duck walked into the lobby, a familiar Gray Ghost pulled up beside the curb. Mytho, dressed in an impeccable white suit and black bow tie, waited patiently for the valet to open the door for them while an equally dolled up Rue shifted nervously in her seat beside him.

"You look wonderful tonight Rue," Mytho smiled at the dark haired actress.

"Thank you," Rue responded noncommittally, her mind obviously distracted.

"This shade of red suits you very well, especially at night," her beau continued, "The color reminds me of the ruby on Father's ring."

Trying to distract herself, Rue picked up the last part of Mytho's sentence. "Where is Daddy anyway? He said he would be coming."

"Perhaps something came up. Maybe it's something about that witness."

Rue shuddered and Mytho chuckled at her response. "Oh Rue, you are so easy to tease sometimes."

The door of the car opened and Mytho stepped out. Reaching back inside the car, he offered his hand to Rue. Impulsively, Rue wondered what would happen if she stayed in the car and told the driver to go home and leave Mytho to his own devices. But as soon as the thought formed it was banished and looking at Mytho's expectant hand Rue knew there was only one thing she could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rachel's married last name (and therefore Han's last name) "Strauss" is named after Johann Strauss II, the famed Austrian composer from the late 19th century. I often listened to The Blue Danube—arguably one of his most popular pieces—when I was little. In addition to waltzes and other dance music, he was also well known for writing light operas.
> 
> *Pastel de nata, also known as egg tart, is a Portuguese pastry. They're very common in places with heavy Portuguese influence, and based on personal experience, are very popular in Asia.
> 
> *Beside the familiar "Tin Lizzie" Ford Model T and swanky Chryslers and Buicks, there were many more types of cars on the road back in the 1920s. The Essex was a car produced from 1918 to 1932, first by the Essex Motor Company then by the Hudson Motor Company, and was considered an affordable, small car. At this time in American history there were hundreds of automobile companies, but many of them were eventually bought by bigger companies or went defunct as the market became oversaturated.
> 
> And yes, believe it or not, it was fashionable once to have a flat chest. So don't blame Fakir for staring; blame the fashion. ;D


	8. Chapter 8

"I'm so sorry Fakir! I tried! I really did!"

Duck and Fakir were in the grand ballroom of the theater along with the rest of the audience invited to the gala. Despite the multitude of famous and influential people milling around about her, Duck could only dwell on how she had fallen asleep in the middle of the opera. She had endeavored valiantly to stay awake, but has nodded off shortly after intermission and had woken up to the sound of applause at the end of the final act.

Fakir shrugged. "It's not as if she could see you in a place this big. And with the lighting no one on stage would be able to see past the first three rows."

"That's true, but..." Duck sighed dejectedly. She'd wanted to be able to fully enjoy this opportunity Rachel had given her, particularly since it was a personal invitation from the singer herself.

"You're getting distracted by this," Fakir reminded the moping red head. "Don't forget what we came here to do."

"I know, I know," Duck mumbled. At least though, she reconciled herself, she did get to hear Rachel sing after all. Although she hadn't a clue what the songs were about she could still appreciate the beautiful quality of Rachel's voice. Duck smiled at the recent memory.

"Ah, there you are!"

At the familiar voice both Fakir and Duck looked up and saw Rachel, who had changed out of her costume and was now wearing a lovely green gown, approach them with a man Duck had never seen before.

"I hope both of you enjoyed the performance," Rachel smiled, to which Duck responded effusively while Fakir merely grunted. Laughing, Rachel turned to the man at her elbow. "Duck, this is my husband, Hans. He was at work when you came by last so I didn't get a chance to introduce you to him."

"Glad to meet you," Hans nodded politely at Duck. "Rachel told me all about you and how supportive you were of her performance."

"Oh!" Duck giggled bashfully. "Well, uh, to tell you the truth I didn't really understand what the opera was about—that is, I mean, I didn't understand what the words were saying. It wasn't in English, I knew that much." She turned towards the opera singer with genuine curiosity. "What language were you singing in, Rachel?"

"It's Czech. I studied the language when I was in Prague and…"

While Rachel discussed the opera with Duck, Fakir discretely scanned the ballroom. There was no sign of the Corvo patriarch, and Fakir did not think he had seen him before the performance either. Dominico Corvo was not known to be a very public man; still, he would always let his presence be known at an event.

Fakir grimaced. There was the chance that he had miscalculated. Could it be that the old man did not attend tonight's reception or the opera? If so then there was little chance Principe would be present either and his plan would be in vain.

As Fakir agitated over the possibilities, his eyes caught the glint from a pair of spectacles in the crowd, and when he focused on its source, the detective's brows drew together. Across the room and half hidden by the other guests was Autor, standing in a far corner beside a marble pillar. Fakir would've otherwise ignored him, expect the other man's gaze was fixed on him and it was plain he was trying to catch Fakir's attention.

"Wait here, I'll be back in a minute," Fakir said to Duck, interrupting her conversation with Rachel.

"Fakir, where—" Rachel asked but her cousin was already gone. Perplexed, Duck watched Fakir dissolve into the crowd. Looking back at Rachel, she saw the singer was equally confused, with a touch of concern in her eyes.

At this time a party of well-wishers approached Rachel and the soprano touched Duck's hand in apology. "We'll talk more later, Duck. If there's anything you need just ask for me, okay?"

"I'll be alright, but thank you," Duck said, and watched as Rachel and Hans greeted the other guests and were swept up by the crowd.

Left to her own devices, Duck sighed. Other than Rachel and her husband she didn't know any of the other guests, and Fakir had gone off somewhere without an explanation.

Duck shifted uncomfortably in her heels. She wondered half-heartedly if she ought to look around the gala to see if she could find Principe, but remembered that Fakir had instructed her to stay put, to which she grudgingly obeyed.

As Duck continued to stand there, pursing her lips impatiently, someone came up to her from behind and said, "Pardon me, dear, but are you by any chance the daughter of Elsa D. Stannus?"

* * *

Fakir nudged his way through the crowd and came upon Autor in his secluded corner. Autor greeted the detective with a condescending smirk.

"What a surprise. Given the annual salary of a New York police detective I would never have expected to see you here."

Fakir however didn't take the bait. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Attending the opera. Surely a detective can deduce _that_ much."

"Right, and I can also deduce that you standing here with a grin on your face is not a coincidence. I've already told you I'm not interested in any project you might have, so beat it."

Autor pushed up the bridge of his glasses, causing the lens to shift so that they hid his eyes. "Ah, but I must admit, my decision to attend the opera was due to a bit of serendipity. I found an interesting old newspaper clipping from my collection, one that I had nearly forgotten about until it quite literally fell out in front of me."

Confused by this seemingly unrelated tangent, Fakir frowned but kept listening.

"It was a notice, a small one, from 16 years ago about a double homicide," the journalist elaborated, and at the last two words Fakir's eyes widened as his hands balled into fists but he otherwise stood stock still as Autor continued. "The victims, according to the article, were a married couple who operated a small bookshop in the Bronx area. The police believed two armed suspects entered the store late at night and gunned down the victims. The crime was believed to be a warning from the mob, as it was known that the store was located in an area controlled by a racket affiliated with Don Corvo, and the couple had previously filed complaints with the police about solicitations and threats from the mob. There was a witness to the crime, for the couple's son had survived the murder. But he was unable to identify the perpetrators and ultimately no one was ever charged for the crime."

Here Autor paused and his voice was hush when he spoke again. "However the story doesn't end there. Riddled by guilt and a desire for revenge, the boy became a police detective for the New York Police Department when he grew up, and his name is—"

At that moment Fakir grabbed Autor by the collar and slammed him against the wall next to them. Fakir raised his fist, his green eyes flashing with fury. Autor sputtered breathlessly, "If this comes to light you will be pulled off the case! What's more, the judge would never accept the case because of your conflict of interest in its outcome!"

At those words Fakir's fist froze in midair, hovering just a few inches away from the journalist's face. He stood glaring at Autor for a long moment. The rest of the party carried on behind them, but in the shadow cast by the pillar Autor held his breath and waited for Fakir's response.

"Go ahead and plaster it across the newspapers if you want." Fakir released Autor, disdainfully pushing the shorter man away before turning and walking back towards the crowd.

Autor gingerly straightened his crumpled shirt collar when Fakir stopped to glower back at the bespectacled man and said in a voice so frigid Autor could not suppress a shudder. "But you had better say your prayers," Fakir's eyes narrowed into menacing slits. "Because I don't care if it costs me my badge, I _will_ make you pay for it."

With those parting words Fakir left a shaken Autor behind and disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Duck's mouth dropped opened in surprise at the question. Turning to one side, a finely dressed blond woman in her early forties stood peering inquisitively at her. "Uh, yes, I am," Duck answered demurely.

"I knew it!" The woman smiled, deeply pleased, and explained, "I saw your mother at her premier performance many years ago. I had the great fortune of meeting her afterwards at the reception and I clearly remember the pendant she wore, the same pendant you are wearing now," she gestured at the jewel at Duck's throat. "And you look so remarkably like your mother, I fairly thought Elsa herself was here again tonight!"

Duck looked at the pendant, her eyes wide in amazement. The half dollar-size pendant was made from thinly cut pieces of translucent garnet set in a frame of gold, giving it a delicate, almost ethereal quality. Duck had long admired it when it was worn by her mother but she had never expected anyone else to recognize the object.

The blond lady turned to wave over her friends. "Ronnie," she called out as a trio of women approached. "I was right! Doesn't she look just like Elsa did back then?"

The brunette of the group gasped. "My goodness, and how!" She stepped forward and took up both of Duck's hands and shook them enthusiastically. "It's a great pleasure to meet you, my dear. I—we—all _greatly_ admired your mother," she gushed and the other women nodded in agreement. "I had never seen a more passionate and beautiful performance of Odette than that of hers at her English premier."

"We first saw Elsa at her premier as Odette in London," recounted a ginger haired member of the quartet. "This was well before the war of course, and we were all dancers ourselves back then. We had heard rumors of a raising prima donna who had trained in Russia and was returning home to perform. But no one had heard of her before and we were all quite curious as to what she was like."

"Her technique was perfect and she had such charisma. Oh, I remember that performance created quite a stir at the time," a dark haired woman reminisced. "I had the pleasure of working with her in a production of the Nutcracker a few years afterwards. Even during practice you could see how passionate she was about her dancing. There was always a sparkle in her eyes, a spring in her step, so spirited and full of life. It's too bad your mother retired so early; I'm sure that had she continued with ballet, she would have become a prima donna assolutia."

"That's certainly right," the brunette lamented. "It was such a shock when I found out she was retiring. She was only 25 at the time, at the peak of her career! I could never understand what drove her to abandon the stage like that." She shook her head sadly. "Then, when I found out about her death, I was simply devastated. The world had lost a true artist and one of the greatest ballerinas of all time."

As the brunette finished her elegy, the ginger haired woman turned to Duck. "Say, how old are you, dear?"

"I'm 19," Duck answered reticently.

"Wasn't it 19 years ago that Elsa announced her retirement?" The blonde wondered aloud and shared a look with her friends before four pairs of eyes descended on Duck.

At their gaze Duck fidgeted uncomfortably. Despite feeling better about her role in her mother's early retirement after her conversation with Fakir, Duck could not completely let go of the feeling of guilt she'd been carrying for so many years. To have so many people standing in acknowledgment of that right now made her want to run and hide.

Seeing Duck's discomfort, the blonde cleared her throat and in an obvious attempt to change the subject, asked, "What about your father? Is he here tonight as well? We never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance and would love to meet him."

"Yes, do introduce us to him!" the dark haired woman put in eagerly. "I hadn't known Elsa had been married until one of the girls in my company told me. I've always wondered what sort of man he is."

However this new topic only seemed to make Duck more uneasy. Shuffling her feet, her eyes fixed on the floor, Duck stuttered, "Um…actually, Father passed away before I was born. I-I only know he used to be a playwright, I think, and that he and my mother met in Moscow where he was producing a play."

"Oh my..." The brunette exclaimed quietly and brought her hand to her lips. "Before you were born? I'm so sorry, dear. Maybe that's the reason why Elsa retired."

"No, it couldn't have been," interrupted the ginger haired woman. "I remember our producer, Mr. Donaldson, once told me Elsa sent him a letter saying she wanted to start dancing again and asked if he knew anyone who's hiring. I remember that was 15 years ago because he told me right before I myself got married. But for some reason she never wrote back to him, and in the end never came out of retirement after all."

 _Ma had wanted to return to ballet?_ Duck was dumbfounded by the revelation.

Duck had always assumed her mother gave up ballet after giving birth to her, and that raising and caring for her had been the reason for Elsa's retirement. But now it seemed that was not true, that Elsa had still wanted to return to the stage. If that was the case then what made her change her mind? Why had she given up that idea and moved her family to the new world, never again to dance under the spotlight?

The quartet evidently had the same question as Duck, and she was called away from her thoughts when one or another of the women said, "And so that's the real mystery behind all this."

Here four pairs of eyes converged on the red head once again, and this time Duck slinked back involuntarily. "None of us could figure it out, so we simply had to ask you. Did your mother ever tell you what her reason was for retiring?"

Duck looked back at them helplessly. "Um, well…I…"

As Duck struggled for an answer, a short distance away Rue swept into the ballroom and picked up a glass flute from a passing tray. Putting the glass to her lips, she grimaced at the fizzy ginger ale, which was a poor substitute for champagne, and exhaled a frustrated sigh as she turned her eyes to the crowd.

Rue had been looking fruitlessly for Mytho, who after the performance had disappeared off somewhere. She scowled. Though she was loath to let him roam around the ballroom by himself, she realized that with her notoriety it was safer for him to remain anonymous in the crowd. Better to let him be, she thought reluctantly, her feet taking her into the crowd as she mulled over her thoughts.

Besides Mytho, Rue was also concerned about the absence of her father from the event. She had never known him to skip appointments, and he had sent word the day before, instructing them to meet him at the opera, yet there had been no message from him all day. She'd tried calling him after the performance but the butler who answered only told her he was occupied by some business and did not wish to be disturbed. Rue's first thought was of the problem with the unidentified witness, but with her father's convoluted web of associates and connections it could be anything. Whatever it was, for it to have kept him from attending the opera it had to be something urgent.

As Rue's eyes passed through the multitude of finely dressed guests they caught sight of a vaguely familiar profile a few feet away from her. Rue narrowed her eyes quizzically and approached the figure for a better look.

The young woman in the apricot dress was surrounded by a group of women, their eager expressions reminding Rue of cats that have cornered a mouse, whiskers twitching with anticipation. When the figure in the middle suddenly turned, Rue found herself looking into a pair of startled blue eyes, the same eyes that had once smiled at her from the doorway of a pointe shoe store, and Rue's own wine-red eyes flashed in surprise.

Duck had been desperately looking around for someone she knew so she could tactfully excuse herself. But she had never expected that person to be the classy young flapper who had graced her shop weeks before.

"Rue!" Duck exclaimed, their eyes meeting.

Turning to the blond spokeswoman of the group, Duck smiled sheepishly and started edging her way out. "Eh, I uh, there's someone I know over there that I need to talk to, excuse me."

Rue watched with one eyebrow raised as Duck toddled over and ducked behind her for cover. The ginger haired woman recognized Rue and approached the young heiress. "Why, if it isn't Miss Odile Legnani!"

Duck blinked at the unfamiliar name while the dark haired woman said to Rue, "I didn't know you are the friend of Miss Stannus here."

"We are...acquainted," Rue replied, glancing at Duck.

Just then, another one of the four women gestured towards the others regarding some enticing new point of interest.

"Well, it has been a great pleasure meeting you, Miss Stannus, and you too, Miss Legnani," one of the women quipped to Rue even as their feet started to shuffle away toward the next attraction. "We look forward to your next picture!"

Duck sighed a silent breath of relief once the group had moved away, leaving her alone together with Rue.

"So, what was that all about?"

"They knew my mother and were asking about her..." Duck scratched her cheek uneasily.

Rue scoffed. "Seemed like a bunch of nosy snoops to me. But besides that," she fixed her eyes on Duck, "I'm surprised to see you here."

Duck blushed when she saw Rue looking over the gown gifted to her by Rachel. She hastily explained, "I know the cousin of the lead soprano and she invited me to the opera. A-actually it was very out of the blue. In fact, I can't quite believe I'm here myself!"

As Rue was about to head off around the ballroom once more, Duck remembered the unfamiliar name by which Rue had been addressed. "So, why did she call you Odile if your name is Rue?"

"That's my screen name," Rue answered as she—with Duck in tow—meandered through the bustling party. "I've been using it for two years now, ever since I started making movies."

"I see, so you're an actress!"

Despite Duck's enthusiastic response, an affronted frown tugged at the edge of Rue's lips. "You've honestly _never_ heard of that name before?"

"I don't go to the cinema all that often," Duck admitted, "but I think 'Rue' is a very nice name. What made you want to use a stage name?"

Rue stopped and exchanged her cup of stale ginger ale for a fresh, chilled glass from a passing tray. "A successful actress needs three things: talent, beauty, and a name people will remember you by. 'Rue' is too plain of a name so I choose to use a stage name instead. Which reminds me, call me 'Miss Legnani' in public; I don't want people to know that I have such an unglamorous name."

Following Rue's example, Duck also picked up a glass of the sweet beverage. "Er, I'll try, Miss Legnaah-ni," Duck drawled clumsily, struggling with the unfamiliar pronunciation.

"No, it's Legnani, Leg- _nani_. Say it correctly."

Duck paused, pursing her lips, and then looked fiercely determined. "Leg-nanny?"

At Duck's butchered pronunciation Rue rolled her eyes, but much to her own astonishment Rue found she couldn't hold back a chuckle. Collecting herself, the actress shook her head, not only at the red head's blunder, but in wonder of how it was that every time she was in the company of this girl, she always felt more at ease despite herself.

"Oh, never mind," Rue dismissed it exasperatedly, but with a smile still lingering on her face. "Not to put myself in the same category as those old hags, but you mentioned your mother was a ballet dancer once. You never told me her name."

"Her name was Elsa Stannus," Duck answered with none of her earlier hesitation. "Have you heard of her before?"

"No, I…" Rue paused. The last name of Stannus had not rung any bells but the name Elsa somehow sounded familiar. Rue could not recall where she could have heard it, so she answered, "I don't think so, but I might have. I'm not sure."

"Ma had retired when we came to New York, so people who knew of her are usually from Europe, back when she used to perform." Duck sipped her drink thoughtfully. "She did teach for a number of years at the Crown Dance Studio but other than that—"

"Crown Dance Studio?" Rue interrupted. "I used to practice there."

Duck considered this. "Really? Maybe that's why you've heard of Ma. She was very popular with her students."

"I didn't take classes there, but I know someone who did. We met there back when he—"

This time Rue was the one to be interrupted as a man in a dark suit came up to her and said in a low voice, "A message for you, Miss Corvo."

The man had stood close enough to Duck that she could make out the last two words he had spoken and her blue eyes widened. "Miss...Corvo?"

After that first sentence the man leaned in and whispered something into Rue's ear. Duck could not hear anything he was saying, but she watched as Rue's expression darkened, her thin black brows furrowing. She gave the man a curt nod and sighed resignedly.

Seeing Duck's confused mien, Rue said, "I need to go now. But before I leave, I want to give you something."

Rue asked the man for a pen, grabbed a napkin from the adjacent refreshments table and scribbled something onto it, startling Duck when the actress stepped right in front of her.

"Here's my number," she said, holding up the napkin. "I'm usually very busy, but…" Rue paused, her expression remaining stoic but with a trace of pink tinting her high cheekbones, "I would like us to keep in touch. If I'm not home I'll most likely be at my father's place or on set, in which case you can reach me through my agent," Rue jotted two more rows of numbers onto the napkin before placing it into Duck's hands. "I don't suppose you have a phone at your place?"

Duck demurred, shaking her head mutely.

"Oh well then—I'll ring your shop if I want to reach you. What was its name again?"

"I-it's the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. But Rue..."

Clutching the napkin in her hands, Duck opened her mouth but found herself incapable of forming the words. Was Rue really related to Domenico Corvo? It couldn't be, could it? It had to be a coincidence! Duck wanted to say all these things, but a lump in the back of her throat prevented her from uttering a sound.

Rue was looking expectantly at Duck to finish her sentence when something behind Duck caught Rue's attention. Duck began to turn around to see what it was, but before she could complete the movement a hauntingly familiar voice made her blood run cold.

"Ah, there you are Rue. Father asked us to return home right away."

Duck found herself looking into the face of the man whose appearance had eluded her on two other occasions. Now she saw him clear as day, dressed in an exquisite white suit that put together with his soft layered hair and fair features, reminded Duck yet again of the reason that people would call him "the prince". But it was his eyes that Duck found herself looking into. They were a rich, amber color, nothing at all like that of a cold-blooded killer as she had imagined. And yet, Duck thought, there was an edge of hardness to them, like diamonds, beautiful but hard.

It was when the pair of golden eyes blinked that Duck realized he had also been staring at her as well, and above the chatter and noise of the party she saw his lips move and he whispered, "Elsa?"

Duck gasped mutely, not quite sure she had just heard what she thought she heard when Rue walked up to them, completely ignorant of the exchange.

"I know. Let's get going then," she said and wrapped her arms around Mytho's. When he didn't respond, she looked at him, askance. "Mytho?"

As if waking from a dream, Mytho glanced at Rue, then back at Duck, before he finally gave a small chuckle and smiled apologetically at Duck, "I'm sorry, miss, I must've mistaken you for someone else. If you'll excuse us." He nodded politely at Duck and with Rue on his arm, the couple turned away, following the man in the dark suit and disappearing in the crowd.

Duck was left where she stood, her mind gone blank at everything that had just transpired. There was no doubt in her mind that this man was Principe, the man Fakir and the police had been searching for so long. But his presence also meant that her new friend, Rue, was almost certainly related to Domenico Corvo, the man who helmed the monstrous organization that seemed completely untouchable.

This man, whose name was Mytho, who somehow knew her mother's name, this man with the amber eyes...the same eyes that oversaw a man's murder in cold blood…

With a jolt, Duck remembered her purpose here and the thought jumpstarted her mind back into working order. She looked around, wanting to tell Fakir about what had just transpired.

But Fakir was still gone and Duck had no way of letting him know where she was. Mentally kicking herself for not listening to him to stay where she was the one time it made a difference, Duck had no choice but to try to retrace her footsteps and hoped Fakir would be waiting for her back at their original location when she got there.

Likewise, Fakir had been engaging in his own search for Duck. When he had returned and found her gone he had cursed under his breath and canvassed the ballroom for her. But the building was huge and having no idea where she might have wandered off to, Fakir opted for a better vantage point and climbed up the stairs that led to the marble balcony overlooking the entire ballroom.

He'd been scanning the room when he spotted a red head frantically meandering its way around the crowd. Knowing that could only be Duck, Fakir descended the stairs and threaded his way through the party-goers towards her location. When he caught sight of the familiar lick of red unruly hair waving above the crowd like a flag, Fakir moved towards it and suddenly found Duck standing right in front of him.

"Idiot, I told you to stay—!" he began to reprimand her but to his surprise Duck grabbed his arms and started talking.

"I found him, Fakir! I found him! I was talking to Rue, whose last name turned out to be Corvo, when this man came up and whispered something to her and she said she had to go but—"

"Wait, _Rue Corvo_? You _know_ Rue Corvo! How?"

"She came to my shop once and she tried on a pair of toe shoes."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Fakir exclaimed, aghast.

"Because I just found out her last name tonight!" Duck retorted curtly, anxious to continue with her narrative. "So then she gave me her phone number. That was when he came up behind me, telling her that they should go, and I recognized his voice and I saw his face before he and Rue turned and left. He was dressed in a white suit and-and he has layered white hair!"

Fakir's brows furrowed. Seizing on the last few words, he said, "I know that. What else? What about his eyes? Did you see them this time?"

Duck gasped a moment to catch her breath. "Yes! They're amber colored, and I also heard his name—"

Fakir involuntarily felt his muscles tense and his chest tighten. The anger from his earlier encounter with Autor, his irritation with Duck wandering off on her own, all but disappeared, replaced by a rush of adrenalin and laced with a heavy sense of dread.

Clasping Duck's shoulder in a vice grip, the volume of his ensuing words caught the attention of those nearby yet he was too intent on this matter to pay that any heed. "What was his name?" he demanded.

Duck winced at Fakir's iron grip on her shoulder, but the intensity she saw in his green eyes made her cringe. It reminded her of the first time they had met, and for one unnerving second Duck felt as if she was back in that dark ally, feeling helpless and confused.

Slowly, she mumbled, "It-it's Mytho, but I can't be sure I heard it correctly—"

Before Duck could finish her sentence Fakir was gone.

Heedless of the people in his way, Fakir pushed and jostled his way towards the exit. The people around him faded into a blur of shapes and noises. Above the undecipherable din of the crowd Fakir could hear the echoed voices of two boys from long ago, standing by the side of a country road on a clear spring day.

" _How long are you going to be gone?" asked the dark haired of the pair of teenage boys._

" _I don't know, but it'll be a long and difficult journey. But you know, I'm not afraid, because this has always been my dream and I'll do anything to achieve it,"_ _answered the lanky fair-haired boy, a determined smile on his lips and a knapsack on the ground by his feet._

_The dark haired boy didn't respond and stood glaring at the ground. His light-haired companion looked at him, puzzled, when finally the black haired boy looked up and turned back toward him, and spoke with a determined gaze set in his eyes, mirroring his companion's._

" _I have a dream of my own as well, and no matter what, someday I'm going to make it happen. So you had better make sure you fulfill yours too, all right?"_

_The fair haired boy grinned. "That will be our promise then!"_

Fakir stopped abruptly to avoid ramming straight into a startled couple and veered around them, their angry voices replacing the ones in his memories.

 _This_ can't _be your dream Mytho! What happened? Where had you gone wrong?_

Fakir's eyebrows creased with anguish as he clenched his teeth, clearing the final few feet into the ballroom's doorway.

* * *

Outside the theater Rue stood with her arms crossed, tapped her fingers impatiently for their car to pull up. Glancing at Mytho she found him gazing back at the building entrance, completely distracted. Wanting to know the cause of his strange behavior, Rue opened her mouth to speak but at that moment the Gray Ghost pulled up, and the liveried chauffeur quickly stepped out to open the door for her.

Telling herself she would ask him later, the actress stepped towards the car when a cold breeze swept by and she realized something was missing and grimaced. "Oh drat! I completely forgot about my coat."

"I'll go get it for you," Mytho said quickly and took off for the theater entrance before Rue could protest.

Once indoors again, Mytho slowed down his pace and gazed around the room, but did not see what he sought in the now nearly empty foyer. Seeing the ballroom entrance, he took a step forward but hesitated. After pausing for a moment, he reluctantly turned on his heels and went on to retrieve Rue's coat as promised.

With the coat in his arm, Mytho made his way back towards the theater entrance when a loud, rapid cascade of footsteps made him pause. Glancing behind him, Mytho glimpsed a man with slightly tousled jet, black hair, his breath heavy from excursion. Turning around, Mytho faced him directly.

The two men stood frozen in the doorway for an infinite moment, each gazing upon the other without uttering a word.

Fakir was the first to speak, but the voice that finally came through his lips was no more than a strangled whisper. "I can't believe it," he choked out. "Mytho…it really _is_ you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few notes this time around, folks. For the attentive fans, you might have noticed I based the four women on the four girls seen in the advanced class with Rue in the canon. Their gossiping trait is purely my own invention as none of them had a speaking role in the anime. Also, according to Wikipedia ginger ale was used as a legal substitute for champagne in the 1920's, in addition to being a popular ingredient in mixed drinks.
> 
> Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	9. Chapter 9

"Fakir?" Mytho's eyes widened at the sight of the other man.

In stark contrast to the distress on Fakir's face, Mytho approached Fakir and greeted his old friend with a joyful smile. "What a surprise! It's been so long since we last met."

The joy was not mirrored on Fakir's face as he inquired in a tremulous whisper, "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the dance school you said you were going to attend?"

Mytho's footsteps stopped and he held Fakir's gaze. Emerald eyes locked with amber ones, the former demanding an answer from the bearer of the latter.

At last Mytho dipped his head slightly, the smile on his lips turning wistful. "I _did_ attend the school, Fakir."

"Then why are you _here_ now?" Fakir demanded, his voice echoing in the deserted foyer. "What have you been doing all this time?"

Instead of answering, Mytho laughed softly and flashed Fakir an apologetic smile. "We can catch up some other time. I'm afraid I don't have time to answer all of your questions tonight. I am in a hurry, you see." With that, he turned around and started down the stairs leading to the entrance.

"You came here with Rue Corvo, the daughter of Domenico Corvo, didn't you?"

Once again, Mytho stopped. Barely glancing back at his old friend, he replied evenly, "Yes, I have."

"And what about Principe?" Fakir uttered in a hushed tone, and at this Mytho stiffened. "How did you get that name?"

Slowly, Mytho turned back around to face Fakir. Standing at the bottom of the marble stairs, Mytho looked up to meet Fakir's accusatory green eyes. Softly, Mytho asked, "Fakir, tell me, has your dream come true?"

Fakir glared down at Mytho, his eyes narrowed, fists clenched. His throat felt so tight that it seemed hard for him to breathe. He tore away from Mytho's gaze, gritting his teeth wordlessly.

"Fakir," Mytho maintained his gaze, "has your dream come true?"

Taking a shuddering breath, at last Fakir managed a strangled, muttered, "Yes, it has."

Mytho closed his eyes and nodded once. "I see." Opening his eyes again, he peered back up at Fakir, and said sincerely, "I offer you my belated congratulations. Over these years I've realized that achieving one's dream comes with a price. Nothing can be accomplished without sacrifice.

"And in this case Fakir," Mytho declared with finality, "the price of your success is our friendship."

Then Mytho turned away and strode out of the theater entrance, leaving Fakir standing there, staring with horror at his former friend.

Fakir wanted to race down the steps, grab Mytho's shoulder and shake them both awake from this senseless nightmare. But, from this dream there could be no awakening. There was nothing he could say to Mytho that would change this reality before him.

The lone dark-haired man lingered in the foyer, standing there helplessly as if he was the puppet of a grinning, sadistic Fate, with his strings gone slack and all strength, all sensations draining away, leaving him as but an empty shell of devastated despair.

And that was how Rachel found him. After disentangling herself from the last group of well-wishers and a few quick words to Hans, she had set out alone to find her cousin. Having failed to locate him in the ballroom, she wandered out into the foyer.

Rachel caught sight of a familiar seated figure at the top of the stairs. She rushed up to him and her face blanched when she saw Fakir in a catatonic state, his usually alert green eyes now distant and vacant.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she shook him gently. "Fakir? Fakir, are you all right?"

Slowly, Fakir seemed to register her presence and Rachel could see his face was ashen white despite the tan complexion of his skin.

He got up unsteadily and blinked several times before turning and looking down at the direction of Rachel's feet, his voice low and disconnected. "I…I'm going back, Rachel. Have Duck take the car; I'll find a taxi."

Rachel stepped in front of him and blocked his way. Cupping his face entreatingly in her hands, her eyes bearing intently on him, she implored, "What _happened,_ Fakir? You've been behaving so strangely as of late. You haven't contacted us for months, then you moved away without any notice, and now I find you here pale as a ghost. Please, tell me what is wrong?"

Fakir shoved Rachel's hands aside and drew away from her, avoiding her eyes. "Leave me alone!" he bellowed, making Rachel wince, a wounded look on her face. Instantly regretting his reaction, Fakir shut his eyes and ran a hand across his face, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted.

Opening weary eyes to look at Rachel, he touched his older cousin's arm in a mute apology before descending the stairs and passing beyond the building's doors. Rachel watched as he melted into the night, her eyes overcast with worry.

The sound of clacking heels and gasping breaths made Rachel look away, and she saw Duck racing into the foyer.

"Rachel!" Duck exhaled, stopping beside the singer. "Have you seen Fakir? He ran off so quickly that I couldn't follow him!"

Rachel grimaced, and then turned to look back at the theater entrance. "He said he's decided to go home early, and asked that you take the car back on your own."

"What!" Duck exclaimed in dismay. "How can he do that? Ohhh! It was Fakir's idea to look for him in the first place and now he just takes off and—!"

Duck's angry rambling halted abruptly when she realized what she was saying and saw Rachel looking at her suspiciously.

Duck took a step back. "Eh, nothing! Never mind what I said! Hahaha!" She waved her hands about her in a vain attempt to dismiss her previous statements. However Rachel wasn't buying any of it and she breathed a deeply pained sigh that cut off Duck's flood of excuses.

"I don't how what exactly this is about, but the two of you coming here tonight...this has something to do with Fakir's work with the mob, doesn't it?"

At those words, Duck's shoulders drooped and she looked away from Rachel. "I-I promised him not to say anything...I'm sorry, Rachel..."

Rachel shook her head, her lips drawing thin with concern. "No...it's not your fault." She sighed heavily. "I just wish...I just wish he'd be able to let it go and move on."

"Let go of what?" Duck wondered aloud.

Rachel turned to Duck. "His parents' death," she said, her gentle voice laced with sorrow, "You see, Duck, Fakir's parents died because they were murdered."

Duck's eyes opened wide at this revelation and she repeated the last word with disbelief. "M-murdered?"

"It happened the year after I first met Fakir. From what the police told us the mob had been harassing them because Uncle Antonio refused to pay them protection money. On the night they died two armed mobsters had broken into their home. Uncle Antonio must have had heard them shortly after they got inside the house, because he'd put up a struggle before they gunned him down. Auntie Amira had tried to run out of the house with Fakir but they shot her before she could make it to the door. Afterwards they had tried to destroy the evidence by..."

Here Rachel's voice cracked, and as tears welled up in her eyes she had to take a deep breath to collect herself before she could continue. "They tried to destroy the evidence by pouring lye on their bodies. It was absolutely barbaric what they did to them. And the worst part was that Fakir was still..." At this point Rachel could no longer go on, clasping her hands over her mouth.

Revulsion was etched on Duck's face. Lye. Poured over the victims' bodies to eliminate the evidence. And Fakir, who somehow made it out of that lurid slaughter alive…

The image of the scar burned across Fakir's bare back came to Duck's mind, and with a shudder, the color drained from her face as she realized its brutal origins.

"Is that how Fakir got those scars on his back?" Duck whispered, and Rachel's eyes widened.

"How could you know this?" Rachel murmured in astonishment. "He's never told _anyone_ about it."

"I..." Duck had no answer to give. She glanced helplessly down at the marbled floor, her hands grasped tightly over her chest.

Rachel looked at Duck for a long moment before seeming to accept the fact for what it was. "No, you're right. Even though the neighbors had called the police after hearing the noise no one dared enter their home until the police arrived. When they finally did, they thought the entire family had perished until an attentive officer noticed Fakir was still breathing. He was rushed to the hospital, but by then the lye had done its damage. It was a miracle he pulled through the surgeries at such a young age, especially considering the extent of his injuries."

"But they caught those men in the end, right?" Duck asked hopefully. "Someone must've seen them!"

However Rachel shook her head. "It was very late when this happened, and if anyone did see anything they were too scared to come forward. Fakir saw the men but did not get a good look at their faces, so no one was ever identified or formally charged."

Duck was at a loss for words as she began to feel nauseated and lightheaded from these gruesome images. Rachel placed steadying hands on the girl's shoulders, and Duck looked into the singer's face.

"I don't know what has happened tonight, but when I found Fakir he looked the same as when I first saw him in the hospital…like a soulless, empty shell. Seeing a child like that, it's something I will never forget. My parents and I, we thought if we could try to replace the family he'd lost, Fakir would eventually return to his old self, back to the little boy who read detective stories and wanted nothing more than become the greatest sleuth there ever was."

Rachel's eyes closed despondently. "But he never returned to being the lighthearted child we had known before, and as he grew older he wanted to study law and become a police officer. I supported him in his dream because I believed having a goal would help him move forward in life, but I was wrong."

She opened her eyes that were now full of apprehension. "He wanted to become an officer because he never forgave _himself_. He's still trying to bring to justice the people he couldn't help arrest as a child. But I'm worried that will only scar him even deeper instead of allowing the wound to heal.

"That's why Duck, I'm begging you," Rachel's hands gripped onto Duck's and she gazed imploringly at the younger woman. "Please watch over him. He wouldn't tell me anything for fear of getting me involved, and I understand that. But he trusts you and relies on you; that much I can see."

Her brows creased more deeply. "Though I might not know what he's planning, I'm afraid it's something extremely dangerous. He thinks he can do everything on his own, but he can't. No one can. So please…be there for him where I can't be."

As Duck rode the Essex alone back to the apartment, she could not stop thinking about Rachel's words. As the car stopped in front of the familiar snow covered steps of her building, Duck stepped out and looked up at the window next to her own. The thin curtains were open but there was no light coming from beyond the dark window pane.

… _He trusts you and relies on you…_

Duck recalled Rachel's words as she quietly climbed the stairs of her apartment building. Fakir had never asked for her help, and always insisted she did things his way. But he had always been there to protect her, just as he had stated he would do. Didn't that count for something? He had found her in a crowd of thousands, despite the odds, had supported her when she doubted herself, however indirect his words might have been. Sure he was a jerk and a nuisance, but Duck was forced to admit, he was someone she could rely on.

And to Duck's own surprise, she also trusted him in return. She trusted him to be there for her when she needed him, and had his invisible support when she faltered. So shouldn't she do the same for him?

As she reached her floor, sounds echoing across the silent hallway pulled Duck away from her thoughts, and the familiar tilts and scratches of a gramophone record drifted faintly through the air. Duck walked up to Fakir's door and heard the music wafting through the crack underneath it. She rapped the door once and strained to hear any movement from within, but none came.

Trying again, Duck waited once more but there was again no response. Giving the door knob a twist, Duck found it locked, yet still there was no response from inside the apartment, save for the ghostly timbre of the piano record.

At this point, upon recalling Rachel's description of Fakir's behavior, Duck began to worry. What if something had happened to him? The fear nagging at her, Duck looked down at the carpet underneath her feet. Before she had time to reconsider, she'd bent down, pulled out the spare key from its hiding place, and inserted it into the lock.

With a quiet click, Duck pushed opened the door and the heavy smell of tobacco assaulted her senses. Suppressing the urge to cough from the heavy smoke, she stepped into the dark, smoke filled apartment.

Her shoes whispering on the floor, Duck made her way to the source of the music and it was there that she found Fakir, sitting by the window, a half burnt cigarette forgotten in his hand. His tailcoat, waistcoat, and tie had been discarded at the end of the bed closest to him, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone despite the chill permeating the room. Fakir seemed unaware of her presence, merely staring unblinkingly out the window pane. Duck grimaced at the ash tray filled with spent cigarettes.

Examining Fakir's expression, Duck could see why Rachel had been so alarmed.

During the flu epidemic when she had gone to the hospital to fetch medicine for her mother, Duck had seen soldiers; men with their bodies battered and broken, with hollow eyes that stared into nothingness for hours on end, no longer seeming connected to the world around them.

The Fakir before her reminded Duck of those broken soldiers she'd seen in the hospital ward. She'd always known Fakir to be alert and active, always moving forward. Now he slouched as though crushed by some invisible burden, disheartened and utterly defeated. The sight sent a painful jolt through Duck's chest.

"What are you doing here?"

Duck jumped at the abrupt sound of Fakir's voice. He did not look at her and continued to gaze sightlessly into the night.

Shifting her eyes to the side, Duck fidgeted uneasily and said, "Well, you rushed off without any explanation. Also, Rachel's worried about you..." the usually frank redhead trailed off, "...she said you didn't look too well."

"What's it to you?" Fakir snapped and Duck winced at the sharpness of his voice.

"R-Rachel…she told me, about what happened to your parents. I-I'm really sorry about what happened to them…"

Fakir cursed under his breath before smashing the cigarette into the ashtray with unnecessary force. Standing up sharply, he fixed a pair of menacing eyes on her and bellowed, "I _don't_ need your pity! Now get out!"

" _That's not it!_ "

Crystal-clear blue eyes gazed up to meet his startled green ones. Duck was evidently surprised by her own boldness, though when she spoke again her voice was quieter but no less determined.

"Fakir, I know you want to put these people behind bars more than anything in the world, that you want justice served for your family, but you're going about it all by yourself. You told me once that the Corvo gang is extremely dangerous, and yet you _insist_ on tackling them on your own. This case is something you can't freely talk about with other people, I understand that, but Rachel is worried sick about you," Duck beseeched him. "Even if you can't tell her about the case you can't ignore her concern for you. It's not fair to her."

Having expressed her feelings in full, Duck fell silent. In the background the song on the record ended, giving way to the skipping noise of the stylus on celluloid.

"I can't tell her, Duck." Fakir dropped back down into his chair and closed his eyes.

"Is it because it's related to the case?"

"No, it's much more than that." Fakir opened his eyes and Duck saw that the anger in them had faded, revealing the pain and sorrow she had seen earlier. Slowly, Fakir uttered, "I…I know who Principe is."

Confused, Duck frowned. "You mean the person called Mytho?"

"Yes. We grew up together. He is—no, was—my best friend."

Duck did not understand what Fakir was saying at first until she remembered Rachel had mentioned a boy who had left to study ballet and with whom they hadn't had any contact with for years. But was that possible?

 _There must be some sort of mistake,_ Duck thought, _like a case of mistaken identity or something!_

Yet Duck could not shake the memory of Principe—or rather, Mytho—uttering Elsa's name. She had wondered why this elegant but dangerous man would know her mother, but if he had at one time been a ballet student, in particular a student of her mother's, then it was plausible he had mistaken her for Elsa.

This thought, in addition to everything else she'd uncovered that evening, was making Duck feel faint, and so she found her way to the end of Fakir's bed and sat down on the thin mattress. Bowing her head, Duck squeezed the beaded purse in her hands, pushing the tiny beads against the skin of her numb digits.

"But…how could that be?" she whispered, incredulous.

Recalling the moment when she saw Principe's face clearly for the first time, Duck remembered his wide-eyed expression, a face not at all like that of a killer. But there had been an edge to his eyes, and while Duck had lived a mostly sheltered life she'd seen men in her neighborhood with eyes like that, men whom had lived a rough and turbulent life. No one was born with hardened eyes like that, and thus Duck knew this person named Mytho must have once been an innocent as well. Whatever could have taken away that innocence, Duck couldn't begin to imagine, but she was sure that his hardened amber eyes at one time must've been warm and gentle.

With that thought in mind, Duck lifted her face towards Fakir, and asked softly, "What kind of a person was he, was Mytho?"

Fakir exhaled a long sigh and slouched in his chair. "He loved ballet more than anything else in the world. In fact it was because of ballet that we met in the first place." The flame from a lighter flickered for a moment in the dim apartment as Fakir lit another cigarette. The dark haired detective brought the cigarette to his lips and drew long on it before exhaling it in a cloud of steel-colored smoke. Staring at the shifting wisps of smoke, memories of a small town emerged from the haze as though shrouded in a morning mist.

It was a community tucked between a series of gently rolling hills and intersected by two thoroughfares and a railroad. Due to the abundance of goods and people that passed through it, the town was prosperous and well-connected to the outside world.

A few blocks from the busy Main Street was a roll of well manicured houses. Fakir, then a dark haired boy, looked out the sitting room window and back inside the house, and upon perceiving the coast was clear, hurried to the door where he—with a hardbound book tucked under one arm—dashed down the street and around a corner. It wasn't until he made it to the center of town did he slow down and meld into the crowd. Few people on the street paid him any mind, and those who did were perplexed by this dark skinned boy as he seemed to wander aimlessly about, but with an undefined purpose.

He had come to live in this town only very recently after having been discharged by the hospital. His uncle's family was kind to him; but save for his older cousin Rachel everyone around him treated him as though he was a glass figurine to be cushioned and protected from the world. His aunt had forbidden him to leave the house for anything more than a short walk each day in the belief that it was "bad for one with a fragile constitution," and had further arranged for a family friend to come in as a tutor during the afternoons so Fakir would not fall behind in his studies until he was well enough to attend school again.

It did not help that the street they lived on was noisy and loud during the day, making it impossible for young Fakir to concentrate on his reading. Even though he had grown up in the city, the bookstore his father ran was located on a quiet street, with little to moderate traffic during the busy hours of the day. The thought of his former home made the boy bite his lips and he held the book in his hands ever more tightly.

Roaming away from the din of the crowds and the railroad station, Fakir headed south until he was nearly at the edge of town. There he found a small cluster of houses and buildings at the base of a short hillock, where otherwise the area was secluded and quiet. Finding the place to his satisfaction, young Fakir made his way up the hill side that stood before him.

As the morning sunlight passed over the top of the mound the boy blinked at the dazzling light. When he opened them his eyes were met with a bright pale figure sitting on the lush grass.

Surprised, Fakir gasped, and the pale figure turned around and their eyes met. The dark haired boy blinked at the other figure, a boy whom appeared about the same age as himself but was of such lithe and delicate features that for a second he wondered if this stranger was some supernatural being, like those he'd read about in fairytales.

Clearing his throat and awkwardly breaking eye contact, Fakir sat down on the grass and opened the book he had carefully transported. Though he tried to maintain his focus on his reading, Fakir could feel the other boy glancing curiously at him, and the feeling of being watched made it impossible for him to concentrate on the text in front of him.

Finally, after several minutes the fair haired youth spoke in a voice so soft that the wind nearly carried it away. "What are you reading?"

Fakir turned, saw the other staring at him expectantly with wide eyes, and answered severely, "It's called _A Study in Scarlet_. It's a mystery novel," he added.

"Oh." The other boy nodded and seemingly content with the answer, turned his gaze to the sight of the houses and farms below them. Seeing his companion's curiosity had been satisfied, Fakir firmly returned his attention back to his book.

He became so engrossed that he had forgotten about the presence of the other boy when the stranger suddenly stood up, turned, and ran down the hill. Startled and perplexed by the other boy's sudden departure, Fakir closed his book shut and pulled himself up to his feet, watching as the white haired figure disappeared beyond a small grove of trees. Natural curiosity and his love of mystery goading him forward, before Fakir knew it he was hurtling down the hillock in the other boy's wake, book in hand.

It did not take him long to locate the fair haired boy. The lithe figure had stopped beside the window of a whitewashed building and with his hands resting on the edge of the windowsill, was now looking intently through its glass panels, the tinkle of faint piano music emitting from them.

Fakir, standing behind a tall chestnut tree, peered through the window and spotted a group of four or five young women wearing pointe shoes and long skirts of tulle all standing by a wooden barre, dancing to the tune that trickled out from their studio as their instructor watched. The white haired boy was absorbed in watching the lesson, and after looking at the dancers for in a while would bend his legs or position his arms to mirror their moments.

This strange game of hide and seek went on for more than an hour, and just as Fakir was beginning to wonder how much longer the other boy was going to stay the distant toll of a bell rang through the air. At the resounds of the bell the white haired boy turned and dashed off again, this time back towards town. Fakir blinked, and then snatched up the book he had put down on the ground and sprinted to catch up with him.

He followed the boy, skirting behind houses and shops, cutting through ally ways until eventually he found himself in front of a small church, identified only by a simple cross displayed above its double doors and a small bronze plaque beneath it which read "Saint Vitus Orphanage and Refuge"*.

The church bell was tolling still, and Fakir saw the boy he'd been following run up to its doors where a sister was waiting. The sister said something to the boy who smiled and nodded. Then, to Fakir's surprise, the fair haired boy turned around, looked straight at him and waved, before disappearing into the building with the sister.

When Fakir got home that day he found his aunt by the door, displeased and worried. She had scolded him while his uncle only smiled thoughtfully and commented how Fakir's energy reminded him of his younger brother. Fakir on the other hand, could not stop thinking about the strange boy he'd met that day. Why was he watching the ballet class? Was he trying to learn ballet? Did he live at the orphanage?

Fakir felt a sense of excitement at having met this mysterious boy, like he'd become the detective he'd always dreamed about becoming, someone who had stumbled upon a mystery and he was the one who would unravel its secrets. Those were the thoughts that lulled him to sleep that night.

The next day, after a long discussion between his aunt and uncle and a brief telephone consultation with the doctor, Fakir was told he'd be allowed to leave the house for his reading but that he'd have to return by noon and not to do anything exceedingly strenuous. How anyone expected an eight year old boy to adhere to the latter commandment was not Fakir's concern. All he knew was that he was now free.

He returned to the hillock and again found the white haired boy there. They met day after day like this for over a week. Sometimes Fakir would arrive first and sometimes there would be no ballet lesson at the studio, and the white haired boy would simply lie on the hillside, or practice the steps he'd learned earlier, with Fakir as his silent audience. No words besides those spoken on their first day passed between them but both boys seemed content with the other's silent companionship. Fakir learned from observation that it was the sound of the piano from the dance studio which signaled to the boy that there would be a lesson for the day and from the gossip of the townsfolk that his companion was indeed an orphan. He had been left on the steps of St. Vitus as an infant. In his swaddling cloth was a scrap of paper with the word "Mytho" written on it, and so the townspeople took to calling him by that name. Everyday Mytho had to return to the orphanage at a specific time to perform his chores, but as long as he performed them dutifully he would be allowed to slip out for a few hours in the morning to study ballet.

And so it was on one particular day Fakir looked up when Mytho dashed off in the direction of the ballet school. Fakir did not follow him, but watched from his vantage point atop the hill as his nameless companion studied the dancers, his movements elegant and fluid, and it was not hard to imagine him as on the other side of the window, practicing with the rest of the class.

Fakir wondered silently how long had this orphan boy been studying as such in secret for him to have become so proficient. It crossed his mind to go ask the boy in person, but a chorus of loud and jeering voices jarred him from his thoughts.

A group of three boys, all about Fakir's own age, had come upon the pale haired boy. Mytho dashed away from the studio window and made a run for the open hillside, but the little bullies quickly surrounded him and started to fling pebbles at him that they'd stored in their pockets. Mytho, caught in their trap, could only cover his head with his arms and meekly endure the ordeal.

Fakir slapped his book close and rushed down the hill. As he came upon them he screamed, "Stop! What did he ever do to you?"

The tallest of three, and whom Fakir judged to be the ringleader, stayed his hand when he saw Fakir. Cocking his head at the poor boy huddled on the grass, the tall boy said, "This little brat's a pervert. He comes here everyday to look up the girls' skirts!"

"Yup, and this time we caught him in the act so we're gonna teach him a lesson!" croaked a stout boy.

"No he's not!" Fakir shouted back as he stood between the bullies and the fair haired boy. "He's watching them because he's trying to learn ballet!" However that only elicited a chorus of jeering laughter from the three offenders.

"Oh, ain't that something! So he's a sissy too!"

The bullies laughed even harder, but Fakir's fists clenched and before any of the boys had time to react, Fakir had picked up a pebble off the ground and threw it straight at the ringleader's face, striking him right between the eyes. The bully's legs instantly turned to jelly and he crumpled to the ground, instantly quelling the laughter of his two cronies.

"What the hell—! Ow!"

The two remaining bullies found themselves under fire as Fakir threw the pebbles they'd been tossing earlier right back at them. Screaming with fright, they turned and ran, dragging their half dazed leader with them.

Fakir flung one last stone their way as the bullies disappeared around a building and he stood there, panting from the effort.

He heard a rustling noise behind him. "You have really good aim."

Fakir found himself blushing profusely at the compliment and turned to face the white haired boy. "It was just a lucky shot. Are you alright?" He noticed that the boy's clothes were dirtied and welts were already forming where Mytho had been struck.

The pale haired boy nodded. "Thank you, um…"

Fakir reached out a hand to help the other boy up. "My name's Fakir, and you're Mytho, right?"

Taking Fakir's outstretched hand, the boy pulled himself back onto his feet and smiled. "Yes, but how did you know?"

Fakir straightened his back and proclaimed, "I'm going to be a detective, so I…"

Here Fakir faltered and he admitted sheepishly, "…Well, I just asked around."

"Still, thank you for saving me back there. But you should be careful; those boys come around here every few days. I usually try to avoid them, but that's not always possible," Mytho shrugged his shoulders and sighed resignedly.

"In that case, I'll protect you."

Mytho's head shot up in surprise. "Eh? But…why?"

Fakir strode over and picked up the book he'd dropped in the grass. "Because a detective works for justice and protects the people." Looking back at Mytho, he said with conviction that belied his young age, "You do what you want to do, and leave those bullies to me."

Mytho considered this and asked tentatively, "Um, so does that make us friends, then?"

Now it was Fakir's turn to be surprised as Mytho explained, "The church's Father told me that a friend is someone you'd share your adversities with. So if you're willing to shoulder my trouble for me, then doesn't that make you my friend?"

Fakir blinked several times thinking it over before he gave a vigorous nod, his cheeks flushed and a smile emerged on his lips. "Yes, it does! We can be like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson! Every detective needs a friend to watch his back for him, so while I watch your back, you can watch mine."

Mytho nodded in turn, but gave Fakir a confused look. "But, who are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson? I've never heard of them before."

Fakir looked at Mytho as if he'd just pronounced that he did not know what the sun was. He gasped incredulously, "Sherlock Holmes is the greatest detective of all time! In the stories Dr. Watson is his friend and biographer, and they solve crimes no one else could solve. You've honestly never heard of him before?"

"The church's Father only has books on theology and history, so no," Mytho replied feebly.

Fakir grabbed Mytho's hand and began pulling him back towards town. "I have all the books and I'll lend them to you. Come on!"

Mytho stumbled and gasped, "But are you sure?"

Fakir turned to look at him, and smiled. "Of course it's alright; we're friends after all."

At this Mytho smiled back and speed up his pace to match Fakir's eager footsteps.

* * *

"What happened after that?"

From the bare wooden floor of Fakir's bedroom Duck looked up towards the window. The moon had risen high in the night sky, drawing a long column of pale blue light in through the glass. Fakir sat facing the moonlight, deep shadows cast across his face.

"After that…" Fakir tiled his head up to look at the orb of light shinning through the dusty window pane. "We started meeting up everyday at the hill until I reenrolled in public school, but even then we continued to see each other every day. I went to see him at the orphanage sometimes. I would read, and he would practice in the chapel when it was empty. He would practice for hours, and people in the orphanage saw that too. The Father who ran the orphanage recognized his talent and wanted him to attend proper lessons, but the orphanage didn't have the extra money to afford to pay for them. Then when I was 15 the Father passed away. We found out at his funeral that he'd left a portion of his will to send Mytho to a respected dance school here in the city."

"And so he came here, to New York to study," Duck finished.

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "Yes, but I lost contact with him after that. To think he's now…" he exhaled sharply, a long thin trail of smoke emitting from his lips.

Duck knew what Fakir wanted to say. Neither of them could understand how the innocent boy Fakir had known in his childhood could become the cold blooded mobster they had seen that evening.

What would it be like to know your friend was guilty of a horrible crime, particularly a crime you were in charge of solving? If she was a detective and the perpetrators were Lillie or Pique, would she be able to arrest them? Duck asked these questions to herself. But Duck could not see her friends being guilty of anything more harmful than reading illicit romance novels and gossiping while at work, and thinking of herself as a detective was laughable even to Duck.

Duck watched as Fakir walked over to the Victrola and placed the needle back onto the record. With the moonlight on his back, she briefly noticed a dark patch above his shirt collar before it was covered again when Fakir's ponytail fell across it. Duck frowned as it took a second for her to realize she was staring at an edge of the hidden scar that stretched across Fakir's back.

She'd always thought it strange for a man, particularly a police officer, to sport a ponytail and had thought it was an outward expression of Fakir's independent attitude. It wasn't until that moment that she realized he was using it to cover up the tip of his scar that a shirt collar could not conceal.

_He's still trying to bring to justice the people he couldn't as a child…and that will only scar him even deeper instead of allowing the scar to heal._

Would Fakir ever be able to get past his family's murder? Would anyone else be able to? And now that Fakir knew his best friend was associated with the very organization that likely had a hand in his family's death, it would be even more difficult for Fakir to let go of the past.

He was at an impasse, Duck realized. Dropping the case would forever deny the justice long overdue to his family and letting the largest and most dangerous criminal organization in the city go unchecked. Continuing with the case would force Fakir to arrest his best friend, who would either face a life sentence or the electric chair.

Duck looked back at Fakir, who stood watching the Victrola as it came to life. "What are you going to do, Fakir?" she said quietly, the tune of the recorded piano sounding eerily like a funeral dirge.

Face still turned away from her, Fakir did not respond until after a long pause, and then finally whispering, "I don't know."

Neither of them spoke for a long time after that, and instead the melody from the record permeated the room.

Duck touched the pendant at her throat. Up until now she had always tried to distance herself from the case she had been witness to, fighting Fakir's insistence on serving as a witness with avoidance and anger, hoping that by disassociating from it the memories would go away and she could return to a normal life.

But the truth of the matter was that regardless of whether she wanted it or not, she had become a part of a story that had turned best friends against one another. And as much as Duck hated to acknowledge it, her decision as a witness could tip the scale in one of two paths, both of which had cruel consequences for the detective.

It was up to her to break this impasse, but Duck did not know what choice was the right one to make. This doubt could not be so easily overcome, and Duck regretted that she did not have the courage to make a decision.

_The jewel's name is 'Courage', it is a gem made of two._

_Do the individual stones themselves have names?_

_Yes they do, and someday you will find out what they are, Duck._

Duck started at the sudden recollection. She had completely forgotten about the jewel Edel had shown her until now, when the memory had come back unbidden. "Someday you will find out what they are…" Duck quietly repeated those words to herself.

Across the room, Fakir looked at her and Duck looked up to meet his eyes.

"You know Fakir, Miss Edel once showed me a jewel she called 'Courage'," Duck told him. "She said it was 'a gem made of two'. I didn't understand what she meant when she said that and I'm still not sure what it means, but…"

Duck took a deep breath, "Maybe courage is having the bravery and perseverance to choose, and then walk the path that you know is true to your heart. I'm not particularly smart or brave or strong, just an ordinary shop girl leading an ordinary life. But I think everyone, no matter who they are, should do what they believe is right."

Fakir stood staring at Duck, whose voice grew as she spoke with increasing self-assurance, "There has to be a reason for Mytho to have abandoned his dream, Fakir. From the way you described him he seemed like the kind of person who wouldn't hurt a fly. Something must've happened during his time here in the city that changed him."

_Could it have something to do with Ma?_

Duck frowned at the sudden thought, but brushed it aside and continued, "I know justice and the law are important things, and I know that we have to arrest him, but we should also find out what it was that led him down this path."

Duck stood up from the bed and tread over to Fakir's side. "Once we've arrested him, and once we learn what his reason is, if at that time you decide you still want to pursue the case, I will be there to testify in court."

The moonlight reflected in her wide, resolute blue eyes bespoke her conviction. There was no more fear, no more hesitation, simply the lucidity of one who had decided on a path and was willing to walk its length, no matter the consequences.

Fakir's heart softened and he was once again astonished by the depth of this young woman. For someone so small and seemingly insignificant to have made such a bold choice could not have been easy, as Fakir remembered all too clearly the signs of distress she'd shown when he first revealed to her the scope of what she had gotten caught up in.

Then, what of himself, a police detective who'd sworn to uphold justice and righteousness, and who still carried the cross of a crime where justice was long overdue? It was not so much about choosing between the bond of their friendship and justice for his family that had left him paralyzed; rather, it was the baffling nature of an incomprehensible betrayal. But unlike crime, betrayal happened for a reason, and it was this notion that Duck had awakened Fakir to.

Though Mytho had renounced their brotherhood, by considering the contrast between his old friend's current and former selves, Duck made the assertion that a catalyst must've been involved to bring about such a dramatic change. Even if Fakir could not change the past, as a detective he could uncover the mysteries of what had taken place in that past.

_Funny… isn't that what a detective is supposed to do in the first place?_

Fakir closed his eyes for a moment and sighed briskly, making Duck cock her head slightly to one side, half surprised and half confused.

Glancing back at his neighbor, Fakir could not help but find it ironic that she was the one to remind him about the heart of his profession. It certainly wouldn't be easy, and Fakir wondered, when (and if) he ever caught Mytho, if he would still once again meet the boy he'd grown up knowing, if he was still within the man he had met this evening.

But he wouldn't get that answer until he came face to face with Mytho again, and so no matter what choices he might make in the end, this was the one objective Fakir was now certain of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I choose St. Vitus for the name of the orphanage because St. Vitus is the patron saint of dancers (but also of actors, comedians, and epileptics). The exact circumstances of his patronage are unclear, but in 16th century Germany some people would dance in front of a statue of St. Vitus on his feast day (which, by the way, is June, 15th) with the belief it would give them a year's worth of good health. The dance somehow became associated with the neurological disorder chorea (as in "choreography") and was called "St. Vitus Dance". This connection with "dancing" led to his patronage of entertainers and dancers in particular.
> 
> And lastly, a big "thank you" to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	10. Chapter 10

The silent, frozen cityscape outside the bedroom window could not have been more different than what Rue felt within herself. Cooped up in her father's house on Park Avenue where she and Mytho had stayed the night, Rue turned sharply away from the window and reached for the silver cigarette box next to the settee. Restless and burning with agitation, the raven-haired actress lit a cigarette—without even bothering to get out her ivory cigarette holder—and began puffing on it to calm her nerves.

After arriving at her father's residence, she and Mytho were instructed by the butler to go directly to her father's study. There within the dark room sat the head of the Corvo family, his aged face partially concealed behind the shadow cast by the lone table lamp on his massive oak desk.

"Why have you called us back in such a hurry, Daddy? What's happened?" Rue asked, hurrying over to the senior patriarch while Mytho closed the door behind them.

"This," the old man said tersely and flung towards her a photograph he had been grasping in his hand.

Rue picked up the photo from his desk, studied it, and turned back to her father. "Who is this?"

"This," Don Corvo said in a rasping voice, as Rue handed the picture to Mytho, "is the man who is out to ruin us."

Mytho looked dispassionately at the picture of Fakir in his hand. It was a snapshot of Fakir on an unidentified street, looking down at his wristwatch as he stood, apparently waiting for a streetcar.

"What do you mean, 'ruin us'?" Rue asked her father quietly, trying to suppress the quiver in her voice.

Taking the picture back from Mytho, Don Corvo explained, "His name is Fakir Romeiras, a detective with the New York City Police Department who's been snooping around our business for the past year. Our sources within the police force tell me he doesn't have much evidence against us, even if he is an adamant young fool. Still, I have been keeping tabs on his work nonetheless, to ensure that he stays on his side of the line. It wasn't much of a surprise to me therefore when the investigation into Alphonse's case was assigned to him. But then, recently, I discovered this."

Don Corvo slapped a pamphlet down in front of them. Rue's eyes drifted across its cover page, and her eyes widened sharply when she recognized it as the guest list for _The Bartered Bride_. Prominent members of the Metropolitan Opera and its board members were sent copies of the guest list before any major event, and Rue had never paid it much attention. This time though she picked it up and scrutinized the list from top to bottom, and lo and behold, she found the name "Fakir Romeiras" listed in the fifth column.

"I had been getting dressed for the opera when I glanced through this and noticed his name," Don Corvo said in his low, hoarse voice, now growling with an undertone of suspicion. "Why else would an uncultured junior detective suddenly be interested in going to an opera that his primary suspects happen to be attending?"

As Rue placed the booklet carefully back onto his desk, Don Corvo continued. "At last minute's notice I skipped the performance and had Tony fetch you two, in case the detective was there looking for Mytho as well."

Rue bit her lip, her bare arms folded in front of her chest. "Do you think we should get rid of him? What if he already knows about Mytho's involvement?" The normally composed actress suggested nervously while Mytho looked on with an inscrutable expression on his face.

"Not yet," Don Corvo said firmly, "we need to discern just how much he really knows before we risk taking major actions. Alphonse's case is causing enough trouble as it is."

He sat back in his chair, stroking his chin pensively, his unseen eyes ostensibly gazing askance. "However, it troubles me that our 'friends' in Tammany Hall* aren't doing a very good job on keeping a tight leash on their dogs. I'll need to have a word with them soon; with elections coming up next year, I think they will be keen on listening," he said with a bare hint of a smirk on his lips. "In the meantime I've ordered Orecchie* to start following this fellow closely and see what exactly he's up to, and if he's onto something that we don't know about yet.

"As for the two of you," Don Corvo turned to Rue and Mytho, "keep a low profile for a while—especially you, Mytho. Have Tommy take over for you for now, though do check on him to make certain that it remains running smoothly." Don Corvo paused, before he added emphatically, "We must make sure that _everything_ goes as planned."

And so, as per her father's orders, the next day Rue had cancelled all of her appointments for the coming week. Her agent had been aghast at her decision and begged to at least know the reason for her sudden absence, but she had only given him a vague answer that she was not feeling well and wanted some time to rest, before hanging up on him and returning to her cigarettes. The explanation she had given her agent was not a complete lie: her constant anxiety was taking its toll on her and she had barely been able to get any sleep the night before.

Mytho on the other hand did not seem to share her unease, or for that matter, take much notice of her at all from that time they had arrived at the Corvo's main house the previous night. She had woken up early this morning and had found his half of the bed empty. Her father was gone as well, and while both men had returned a few hours later, neither of them gave any explanation as to their prior whereabouts.

When Rue had asked Mytho about it, he did not answer, aloof and cold like the winter air that abraded the residents of this city—a sharp contrast to the dark, teasing attitude he had taken to her the night before. Rue wondered what had caused the sudden shift in his behavior, but before Rue could inquire further, Mytho retreated to the study, telling her he had to make some calls to discuss important business matters.

Rue knew better than to ask her father about the family business. If there had ever been anything necessary for her to know, she would have already been informed of it. To go out of her way to inquire into matters would be to invite a harsh reprimand of her self-indulgent prying—a consequence that, knowing her father's temperament, she didn't care to chance.

Nonetheless, it still frustrated Rue that she should be left out of the loop when her family—her entire world—was under serious threat. And Mytho, the Mytho who had always been so open and honest with her, was now as shuttered as everyone else.

Glancing at the clock, Rue realized it had been more than two hours since Mytho had shut himself up in the study, and she wondered what was taking him so long. Snuffing out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the windowsill, she turned her heels towards the study.

In front of the closed double doors, she listened for a conversation but heard none. She twisted the doorknob, pushing open the door quietly, and saw her beau sitting in the leather chair with his back toward her, his face facing the same gray cityscape she had been looking out across moments earlier. His eyes were downcast at something in his hand.

Rue walked into the room, and at the click of her heels on the smooth Italian marble floor Mytho's eyes looked up. Closing his fingers over the object in his hand, he tucked it away inside the inner pocket of his coat.

"I thought you were on the phone," Rue accosted him.

"The business I had is settled. I was thinking it over, that's all," Mytho said, standing up. "We've always had to maintain a cautious dance with the police, a pas de deux, you might say," the corners of Mytho's lips curved faintly at the metaphor, his back still to Rue, "but we've always been the ones to lead. I wonder, about this detective Father mentioned…" he paused, "…if he has the potential to change the rules of this game of cat and mouse."

"That won't happen," Rue said staunchly, her crimson eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms, facing the wall defiantly. "I won't allow anyone, much less a stupid two-bit gumshoe, to destroy what Daddy worked so hard to create."

Mytho chuckled and Rue looked at him askance. "Yes, but what could you do about it, Rue?" He finally turned to gaze at her with those eyes that were frozen over like the gray Manhattan winter, and asked with a cruel innocence, "What _can_ you do on your own without Father?"

Rue stood motionlessly as Mytho strolled past her, leaving the young woman behind with only the sensation of a passing breeze. She was vaguely aware of familiar voices in the hallway, but at that moment she could only brood over the tattered remains of the thin veneer of her confidence, ripped asunder by the blow of Mytho's words.

She had wealth, fame, and status, but how many of her achievements were her own and how many were thanks to the connections and strings of her father? Rue had never seriously considered it; or rather, she had ignored it and focused single-mindedly on getting whatever it was she desired. To have that question so brusquely thrown at her shook Rue to her core—and for the first time in her life, Rue questioned who, and what, she really was.

Was she the daughter of Don Corvo, or was she _just_ the daughter of Don Corvo? Who was she without her family's name? She was Rue, an ordinary girl with a talent for ballet. Without that money, without those connections, she would be nothing more than a lowly ballerina in red shoes who always dreamed of a place in the spotlight, forever out of her reach.

"What are you doing here, Rue?"

The rasping voice of Dominico Corvo startled Rue out of her wits. She gasped, whipping her head around, and found her father standing behind her; there was no sign of Mytho.

"Ah, I'm sorry, Daddy! I was just…I was just distracted."

"Evidently." Don Corvo took a note from his pocket and handed it to Rue. "This is no time to have your head up in the clouds, my daughter. An opportunity to tip the scales in our favor has just presented itself."

Perplexed, Rue held up the stationary in her hand. Written in the immaculate cursive of their senior butler, it read:

_Interview request with Miss Legnani._

_Autor Brahms, New York World._

_Tel. Manhattan 5361(*)_

* * *

_The New York World_ made its name reporting on the spectacles and commotions of the city, and the same buzz of activity was mirrored in the editorial floor of its Manhattan-based office. The constant footsteps, loud voices, ceaseless clickety-clack of typewriters and chorus of ringing telephones made it difficult to even have a conversation, much less think coherently.

Tucked in a corner of the cacophonous office was a small desk, at which sat Autor. With his elbow resting on his diminutive and altogether inadequate desk, the young reporter rested his chin on his palm, staring contemptuously at the typed manuscripts spread out in front of him. "Rudolf Valentino's marriage on the rocks," read one headline. "Forbidden Paradise: Pola Negri Brings Czarina to Life," advertised another.

Autor sighed in disgust, tossing aside the pen that had been sitting idly in his hand for the past hour. With the popularity of film and celebrity-culture increasing, seemingly exponentially, news agencies knew entertainment news equaled wider readership, and that equaled more profit. There were a dozen reporters like himself on this floor, whose job it was to cover the latest and most "sensational" stories coming out of Broadway and Hollywood. But if there was anything Autor detested most, it was writing about the day-to-day gossip concerning the idle habits of morally ambiguous starlets.

His job was made tolerable only by the occasional classical opera or orchestral concert premier he was asked to attend by his editor, as he was the only reporter in the department with advanced musical training and thus the authority and expertise to report on such performances. But those assignments were few and far between as traditional performing arts had in these days fallen out of popularity with the public, so that even these reports had degenerated into nothing more than lists of the latest fashion trends and celebrity blather.

Looking away from the manuscript on his desk and out the window at the city skyline, the overcast clouds like a dull blank canvas draped above the skyscrapers, Autor could only dream of publishing the kinds of stories he truly wished to report on. Stories that revealed the secrets of this oblivious metropolis, exposés that awakened people to the city's moral weaknesses. That was the reason he had joined this newspaper in the first place: its reputation of exposing the dark underbelly of the city for the world to see with their own eyes.

But as a junior reporter with no major headline under his belt, Autor had little choice in his work and had to accept whatever story the editors assigned for him. In fact, Autor recalled he had once been on the verge of quitting out of sheer frustration, when he had stumbled onto the Corvo story after overhearing a conversation between two co-workers. Both were senior reporters with the newspaper, and Autor had at the time happened to be transcribing a report near one of the men's desks. Then, another man walked up to the desk.

"How come you're back early, Charlie? I thought you were on that story down by the river."

The man at the desk shook his head. "Was, but the police wouldn't toss us so much as a bone. Even the longshoremen's lips were sealed tight as clams, though honestly I can't blame 'em."

"Why's that?" the other man asked, leaning towards Charlie with interest.

Here Charlie sighed and confided to his friend, "You know that I've seen a lot of nasty stuff, Allen, what with the war, and some of the stories I've covered before. But what I saw today ranks among some o' the most gruesome stuff I've seen yet."

Neither of the men had taken notice of Autor, and Autor had not been particularly interested in their conversation anyway. However that last sentence had caught Autor's attention, and out of curiosity and boredom, Autor listened more closely while keeping his eyes and his hands on his work.

"Geez, how bad was it, if it can make a seasoned veteran like you green in the face?" Allen joked.

"Lemme tell you, Allen," Charlie said, lowering his voice, "this Corvo racket, they're really not to be fooled around with." He looked up at Allen grimly. "That chap they brought up today from the river had been tied to a chair with its legs set in blocks of concrete before being tossed into the river."

"Sure, but uh, that doesn't sound all that…bad," Allen said after a pause to consider the right word choice.

"Oh, that's not all. It gets worse." Here Charlie leaned in and spoke in a voice so soft that Autor had to take his hands off his typewriter to keep the two men in earshot. He pretended to be examining his notes as he continued to listen.

"I hung around the dock after the body was pulled outta the water, hoping to get some interesting tid-bits, or maybe get the I.D. of the deceased, or something useful like that, you know? And it paid off when I heard one of the coppers shout that there was a wad of paper inside the dead man's mouth. Everybody came rushin' up to see what it said, but his jaw was shut so tight they had to pry the damn thing loose."

Charlie paused to take a breath, and then went on, "The police tried pushing the spectators back, but that's when they finally got the guy's mouth open and the paper dropped out. I saw then that the poor man's tongue had been cut clean off. And you know what was printed on that paper?"

By then Allen was starting to look unnerved. "Wha…what did it say?"

"It just said, ' _snoop_ '," Charlie said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The dead man must've been sticking his nose too far into Corvo's business to end up like this. I reckon it was a warning, to the rest of us."

Allen pursed his lips nervously. "You keep saying it's the Corvo's, but how'd you know it's not some other gang that did this?"

Charlie shook his head. "Oh trust me, it's them alright. The dock where they found the guy's in their territory. No one would admit it openly, but it's a common secret that they're the ones runnin' the show down there." He looked contemplative. "That's gotta be the reason none of the longshoremen wanted to talk to me, even after I offered them some incentives. They're probably scared stiff."

"So…are you gonna publish all that?" Allen asked incredulously.

"Me?" Charlie scoffed. "No way in hell! I sure don't wanna end up like that guy, a wet scarecrow with its tongue cut out." He shook his head slowly. "Nah, I'll still write up something for the editor to read, just for the record and all, but there's some parts of this story better left unwritten."

"That's the smart thing to do," Allen agreed. "It's wiser not to be messin' about with dicey business like that."

As the two reporters shifted topics to something more trivial, Autor couldn't stop pondering their conversation, even after the two reporters had left for the day. He just could not get that story out of his head. A story that was too dangerous even to tell other people? That was a story worth telling, indeed!

The morning following the conversation, first thing he had done was snap up a copy of the newspaper, still warm off the press, and quickly found Charlie's story. Sure enough, there was the lurid description of the body and the condition it was found, but only a vague reference that the man's death was gang related. Autor remembered sitting by his desk until late that night, the office having finally fallen silent as he mulled over the story and the shocking details that were cut from it.

What he believed in more than anything else was that the journalist's mission was to report the truth, no matter how horrifying or perilous it might be—because if none of them did, then who else would have the audacity to shine a light on the hidden ugliness of this troubled city? Yet he had just seen men, who were his seniors in position and experience, shy away from reporting the truth, letting the precious facts fall away into oblivion, discarded like refuse.

Autor had realized this was precisely the kind of story he had always wanted to work on, an earth-shattering piece of news that would surely stir up society, and it was just sitting there, begging to be told. At that moment, he decided to take it upon himself to research and tell the story of the criminal history of the Corvo family, even if he had to do it all on his own.

He knew he had to carry out his investigations clandestinely. Despite its absence in the papers, the name of Corvo kept sneaking into conversations both within the news office and on the streets, usually in whispers. Using the leads from these scattered discourses, Autor began documenting their earlier cases and accounts of similar crimes. Before long he had compiled a sizable folder of materials, and as the picture of the Corvo family developed, Autor's eagerness grew with it.

But his zealous giddiness had been short-lived as he realized the limitations of what he could learn without attracting unwanted attention on himself. Fakir's recent dismissal of Autor's work had only made things worse, reinforcing his belief that people were hopelessly blind to the truth, even if it was staring them right in the face. What was worse, without additional key bits of information, Autor feared his story might never see the light of day. The notion that all his hard work might be for nothing in the end was unbearable.

Desperate and resentful after his failed attempts to obtain Fakir's aid, Autor had decided to try one last resort to earn the cooperation of the police detective: blackmail.

Granted, Autor had immediate doubts about the idea when he first came across the news clipping about the murdered family. What if it was merely a coincidence and Fakir was unrelated to the victims? He would be making a grand fool of himself and that would only make the situation worse.

Fortunately, that concern had been readily placated by a visit to the New York City Department of Records. However, that still left Autor with a far greater problem, which was his own sense of justice. He had considerable qualms about coercing another man, even one whom he disdained, by using the death of his own family against him. Wouldn't doing so reduce him to the level of the very criminal he was trying to expose? But, if he left Fakir alone, his one link into the investigation would be lost, leaving him cold on the case without any other leads in sight.

Autor had contemplated this moral dilemma for many days as the date of the opera drew near. Even if he did not personally bring up the relationship between Fakir's family and the prosecution of the Corvos, Autor rationalized, surely when the case went to court the Corvos' lawyers would have dredged up this little fact and used it against the prosecution all the same? Autor knew the Corvos hired some of the best defense attorneys in the state, and so far they had been able to shoot down every case ever brought up against the Corvos. It was not inconceivable that when Fakir brought his case to court, the Corvo lawyers would have meticulously examined Fakir's background and consequently use the death of his parents to challenge the validity of his evidence due to conflict of interest.

If such a revelation was inevitable, then it was all the more imperative for Autor to publish his expose as soon as possible, before the Corvos could have time to dispute it in some fashion or another. The only question that had remained then was how Fakir would respond. Autor had imagined that if the detective's desire for revenge was strong enough, he would not jeopardize the Corvo case for the world, and Autor would be able to persuade him to work together for a common cause.

The easy part of the plan had been convincing his editor to let him attend the opera, as it was the first performance of the season, an occasion known to draw a large spectrum of the rich and influential crowd. Unfortunately for Autor, that had been the only part of his plan that had played out as he'd hoped.

His plan having backfired completely, Autor had left the gala soon after his encounter with Fakir, lest he run into the dark haired man again and the belligerent detective decided to make good on his threat. In his sullen state Autor had not paid enough attention to his surroundings and had bumped into another guest on his way out of the ballroom.

"Sorry—" Autor said absentmindedly when he looked up and saw a pair of wine red eyes.

"It's fine. Excuse me," Rue said with a harried but courteous smile and strode past him.

Autor had stared after the young lady as she disappeared into the crowd. Being a reporter, he had seen pictures and photos of Rue on many past occasions. Between that and the research he'd done on her family, Autor already knew quite a bit about the burgeoning actress. However, he had never met her in person before and something about her completely arrested his attention.

Having finally left the opera house, Autor sat sleeplessly in front of the desk in his study. He wasn't able to shake off the image of her vivid, garnet-colored eyes from his mind. What was so appealing to him about her, he wondered? Was it her beauty? Autor acknowledged that the actress had a sense of class that was missing from many of the frivolous starlets of his day, but this was not the first time he had seen her. Could it be her mannerisms, then? She seemed to have been in a hurry, her footsteps brisk as she entered the ballroom—and it was this recollection that got the gears in Autor's head turning.

He had realized during the performance that Don Corvo was absent, which was surprising as the Don liked to advertise himself as a patron of the arts. Perhaps Rue had been expecting her father, but when he still hadn't shown up for the gala she had grown worried.

Autor touched the tips of his fingers together and considered this idea. Something big must've happened for Don Corvo to miss a performance at the Met. The possible reasons for his absence were endless, and it was not impossible that the Don had suffered a stroke or something of that nature, given his advanced age.

But Autor had a gut feeling—a reporter's intuition, perhaps—that it had something to do with the crime family's dealings rather than any health issues the Don might have experienced. The image of Rue surfaced once again in Autor's mind, and he frowned at its intrusion. Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? It was true that Rue was Don Corvo's only child, and it was well-known that she was very close to her father, but what would that…

Autor suddenly sat up in his chair. "Of course!" The exclamation reverberated slightly in his otherwise silent house.

If anyone would know what was concerning Don Corvo, it would be Rue. How much of his personal dealings the Don would divulge to his daughter, Autor could not be sure of, but he was convinced that the actress must have some intimate knowledge of the workings and goings of her father's organization.

It had to be a stroke of luck that he had ran into her at the gala. He could get closer than ever before to the source if he could secure an opportunity to talk with Rue, and with his assignment to write the review for _The Bartered Bride,_ that wouldn't be a problem. Editors always liked it when celebrities were quoted in a story. If he could use the review article for the opera as an excuse to interview Rue, then he might be able to probe for the reason of Don Corvo's absence from the opera.

The more Autor thought about the idea, the more excited he grew. He hardly slept at all that night and marched into the office early in the morning to put his new plan into action. When he finally managed to track down Rue's phone number, he was told by Rue's housekeeper that Miss Legnani had spent the prior night at her father's residence and that she would remain away from her house for a few days. When Autor asked for the phone number at the Corvo main residence, the housekeeper regretfully informed him that she was not allowed to give away such information, but that she would take a message from him and convey it to Miss Legnani. With no other choice, Autor gave her his name and number before hanging the receiver glumly on its hook.

Half a day later Autor found himself staring vacantly at drafts of articles, still waiting for a response, the likelihood of which was growing dimmer and dimmer with each passing minute. Could the Don's absence last night really be due to a medical reason after all? Autor grimaced. If that were the case, there was no chance Rue would agree to the interview…

The ringing of his telephone made Autor's head shoot back up. He blinked with disbelief at the instrument for a few seconds, filling up with a rush of nervous anticipation, before snatching the receiver off its hook.

"Hello?" he said quickly.

"Mr. Brahms? I have a call for you from Manhattan, from a Miss Odile Legnani," said the switchboard operator. "Could you wait a moment while I connect your call?"

At this Autor's heart began to beat even faster. He had hoped that he would get a response from her within the next few days, but Autor had not expected Rue Corvo _herself_ to call him back! Sitting up straight in his chair, Autor spoke into the receiver, his voice trembling a bit, "Y-yes, certainly. I'll wait."

In the few seconds it took for the call to come through, Autor took a deep breath to calm himself and brought the transmitter closer—until he could almost kiss it—in order to prevent others from over hearing, when suddenly the line cracked back to life.

"Hello, is this Mr. Autor Brahms?" replied the velvety feminine voice on the other end.

"Yes, yes, this is he! I am honored that you would find the time in your busy schedule to call me back, Miss Legnani."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Brahms. I received the message you left earlier this morning. I subscribe to your paper and I'd be happy to discuss my thoughts about the performance with you. But I must say I find telephone interviews to be so dreary; the connection can be horrid sometimes, so I would much more prefer to meet in person. Would that be all right with you?"

This was so much more than Autor could have hoped for that he was unable to conceal his excitement, and so he answered somewhat loudly, "Yes, of course! Certainly!"

With one hand still clutching the receiver and using his other free hand, Autor managed to dig out the notebook in his suit pocket and retrieve a pen off his desk. "Would tonight work for you, Miss Corvo? Let us say, eight-o'-clock, at the Hôtel Élysée. Would that suit you?"

"It suits. I will see you then," was her pithy reply before the line went dead.

Autor slowly placed the receiver back on its hook, then glanced down at the appointment he'd jotted down. Sitting back in his chair, Autor was seized with a giddiness that rivaled that of his first discovery of the Corvo case. Bumping into Rue Corvo must have been a stroke of great fortune, he thought to himself. The logical part of him reminded him that this was a dangerous maneuver on his part, meeting the spider in its parlor so to speak. But what great deeds were ever accomplished without taking some risks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tammany Hall was a political organization that once controlled much of the political machinery in New York City from the 18th century until the mid-20th century. It was famous (or rather, infamous) for being highly corrupt as well as being highly efficient.
> 
> * Orecchie is Italian for "ears".
> 
> *The New York World was a highly circulated newspaper founded by Joseph Pulitzer, who also founded the Pulitzer Prize, an award for achievements in journalism, literature, and music composition. The newspaper was famous for being a pioneer in what is known as "yellow journalism": news that was sensational, hyperbole, and scandalous. It also published important exposés including the deploring conditions of tenements in the early 20th century which led to reform. It's dual reputation for being gritty and a muckraker is what makes me think this newspaper would be a natural fit for the crusading reporter that is Autor in this universe.
> 
> *Back in the 1920's telephone numbers consisted of three letters followed by four numbers. The letters were usually the first three letters of the neighborhood or city the caller was in, for example "TRE" for a number in Tremont, New York City. It wasn't until the 1960's that telephone numbers in the US became all numbers.
> 
> Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-proofing!


	11. Chapter 11

A livered waiter pulled open the gilded doors of the Hôtel Élysée as Rue stepped out of her car. Slipping off her silver fox fur coat, she revealed a black velvet gown embedded with rhinestones and a silver sash at her waist, shimmering like the Milky Way cutting across a star-studded night sky. Her alluring appearance drew the eyes of patrons and employees alike as the maître d' escorted her to the table where Autor sat, waiting.

Rue assessed the bespectacled journalist. The "opportunity" her father had spoken of was this unremarkable, bookish young man. She had never heard of him before but it came as no surprise that her father—with his many eyes and ears—had, as she recalled the conversation they had the day before.

"He's a junior reporter with the World. Our people tell me he's been prying about our business lately; in other words, another young fool who doesn't know his boundaries," Don Corvo scoffed. "However, he spends his time loitering in the archives, and seems to have only picked up scant rumors and gossip so far"

"But doesn't that make him a threat, Daddy? How would he be an asset to us?" Rue asked, frowning.

"In the future, yes, he could cause us trouble. Should he ever uncover something truly detrimental to us then he will have to be taken care of. For now, as I have said, it's best not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. Instead, I want you to use this opportunity to draw information from him and find out whether or not he's been in contact with the police. If that is so, we might need to quiet him sooner rather than later."

"But what if this meeting he's set up is a trap? We'd be walking right into it!"

Don Corvo laughed, a low cackling sound made all the more sinister by the old man's dark eyes. "Of course it is! These reporters, they're a sly breed, after all. But I trust that you can manage them, Rue?"

He clutched her shoulder firmly. "Don't disappoint me, Daughter."

That single sentence had propelled Rue here, as she stood in the dining room of the posh hotel, beside an empty seat at a table set for two.

 _No,_ _I_ _won_ _'_ _t_ _fail_ _you,_ _Daddy_ , Rue told herself sternly as Autor stood from his chair to greet her. _I_ _'_ _ll_ _show_ _Mytho_ _that_ _I_ _can_ _do_ _this_ _on_ _my_ _own!_

Rue pushed a well-practiced smile onto her lips and allowed Autor to pull back her chair for her before taking a seat.

"Thank you once again for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice, Miss Legnani," Autor said once he'd taken his seat again at the table.

"You're too kind, Mr. Brahms," Rue replied sweetly.

The table lapsed into silence as Rue daintily perused her menu while Autor pretended to look down at his own menu, sneaking occasional glances at the actress.

Now that Rue was here, Autor knew he would have to choose his words wisely, least he give his intentions away. The challenge at this point was how he would broach the subject of her father's absence from the opera without arousing suspicion. He had been thinking about the question ever since he'd gotten the idea to interview the Corvo heiress. From his own research as well as stories published in various newspapers, Autor knew a good deal about Rue Corvo, in terms of both her family as well as her career. _I_ _mustn_ _'_ _t_ _rush_ , Autor reminded himself. _Start_ _with_ _small_ _talk,_ _ask_ _about_ _her_ _career,_ _then_ _ask_ _her_ _about_ _the_ _opera_ _and_ _segue_ _into_ _inquiring_ _about_ _her_ _father._ _Act_ _natural!_

As Autor stole another glance, Rue also happened to look up, and catching his eyes she flashed him another smile. This one simple smile displaced the meticulous logic in Autor's mind, and he was suddenly struck by her alluring appearance.

She was beautiful, even more so tonight than she had been the night of the opera when he'd first met her in person. The wide cut of her neckline revealed flawless ivory skin that seemed to glow in the soft candlelight. Autor felt his cheeks flush and he ducked his head sharply back into the menu when a waiter approached their table.

While Rue ordered her meal, Autor took several long sips of his glass of ice water in an effort to calm himself. This was the most important interview of his career! His one chance to get up close and personal with the most powerful crime family in the city—yet all he had accomplished so far was to sit there ogling the Corvo heiress! Caught up in his self-deprecation, Autor almost didn't hear the waiter's question.

"And you, sir?"

"Ah—" Autor's head snapped up, quickly glanced back down at the menu, and picked the first item his eyes came cross. "I will have the caneton rôti, and another glass of water, please."

The waiter assented with a brisk nod, and after the server had retreated Rue said offhandedly, "I am remembering some of my reporter friends at the World telling me once that they'd hired a new reporter. I know many of the reporters from various agencies but you're a fresh face. I assume then you must be the man they were talking about?"

Autor, more composed now, nodded. "I started about a year and a half ago. Since I am relatively junior I'm usually in the office instead of being in the field. But due to my relatively extensive background and training in classical music, my editors would, from time to time, ask me to cover operas and concerts."

"What instrument do you play, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The piano. My father owned a music shop and he taught me to play the piano when I was a boy."

"Oh! That's wonderful, Mr. Brahms—would you mind awfully if I called you Autor? I'd much more prefer addressing people by their given name."

Autor blinked, and then smiled. "Ah, yes, certainly."

"Grand!" Rue's lips curved upward and she sat back contently into her chair like a purring cat. "I don't know if you already know this, but I used to dance ballet, and every practice would be accompanied by piano. It's amazing how a humble collection of smooth ivory keys and taut steel wires can produce such beautiful music," Rue said as the fingers of her hand nimbly tapped the table in rhythm, as though playing an imaginary keyboard. "It brings back some wonderful memories."

Autor was well aware that Rue used to be a ballet dancer, and one with no small amount of talent either. He wondered what Rue's dance would be like. Gracefully and technically superb surely, but also sensual, and passionate…

He cleared his throat, hurriedly shelving that thought. Speaking as much to distract himself as to continue the conversation, he said to Rue, "Y-yes, but that's now more of a hobby than a full-time pursuit of mine. You see, Miss Legnani—"

"Call me Rue, please."

Autor was at first thrown off by the request, but then he slowly answered, "Rue…um, as I was saying, my passion now is in journalism. I'm fascinated by the art of storytelling, and I want to be the best storyteller there is."

"The best reporter in the world, hmm?" Rue smiled, cocking a thin eyebrow at him. "Then you must be working very hard to achieve that goal, and I do like a man with ambition." She shifted forward slightly in her seat. "To tell you the truth, I was surprised when you called me about 'The Bartered Bride', since my agent hadn't made a public announcement that I would be attending. How did you know I had been there at the opera?"

Autor realized this was a trick question. She was probing him to see how much he already knew. But this was a question Autor had well anticipated. He inwardly smiled with pride and answered coolly, "Actually, we met once before, at the opera the other night in fact; I was rather absentminded and bumped into you by the ballroom entrance."

"Oh?" Rue was genuinely surprised, pausing to recollect. It took her several seconds to remember the incident, as she had been so intent on finding Mytho at the time.

"Yes, but you seemed to be in a hurry, so I wouldn't expect that you'd remember."

"I confess, I really don't recall it. I was, as you said, in a bit of a rush that night."

Thinking this to be a perfect opportunity to inquire about Don Corvo, Autor opened his mouth, only for the waiter to arrive with their food, forcing the reporter to hold his questions back. _Patience,_ _patience_ , he told himself as the plates were set down before them. _Don_ _'_ _t_ _rush_.

Rue cast a momentary glance at him before picking up her fork. "The performance itself was very good, if I might say so. I can't comment too much on the singing, as I'm no singer myself, but in terms of stage production it was very well done," she said, spoiling Autor's opening by smoothly steering their conversation into a different direction.

During the rest of their meal they discussed the opera and other trivial and innocuous subjects. By the time their plates were cleared away and coffee and mints have been served, Autor decided it was time to get to the heart of the matter.

 _How_ _will_ _she_ _respond?_ Autor wondered as he absentmindedly stirred his coffee with a spoon. _Will_ _she be_ _angry_ _for_ _prying,_ _or_ _will_ _she_ _just_ _evade_ _the_ _topic?_ His anxiety and anticipation made the young reporter's hand unsteady, causing the spoon he held to slip from his fingers and make a graceless "clink" against the edge of the porcelain cup.

He swallowed, feeling Rue's eyes on him. Picking up his cup and trying to look casual, he inquired, "I know your father, Mr. Corvo, is a great patron of the Met and he makes a point of attending all of their premier performances, but I don't recall seeing him that night at the theater."

Autor plucked up the courage to meet Rue's eyes. But the young actress's expression was unreadable, one slender finger of her hand lazily tracing the smooth rim of her untouched coffee cup.

Then, she said softly, "You mentioned you used to play the piano and are quite knowledgeable about music. But I wonder, how do you fancy jazz?"

Bewildered by her question, Autor stammered, "Ah, well, I can't say I'm an expert on _that_ particular form of music...if it could be called as such, though it has a definite sense of, uh…passion behind it."* He pursed his lips. "But I've only been to a handful of performances and can't really comment much on the topic, I'm afraid," Autor answered cautiously, having no idea how this was related to the subject.

Rue leaned forward, her elbows resting at the edge of the table, her voice coy, "In that case I _must_ show you what real jazz is all about. I know a swanky club that has an absolutely fabulous band playing tonight. They also have a superb bar, none of that coffin varnish and rotgut stuff there."

That certainly had _not_ been a response Autor had anticipated. "But I'm—!"

Rue swiftly quieted him when she reached out across the table and covered the back of his hand with hers, sending a wave of heat through Autor's cheeks. "I like you, Autor, and I really would like us to talk for a while longer. This is a fine place, but I can't speak freely here."

Leaning closer, she whispered, "You see, the truth is, there's something I've been wanting to get off my chest, but it's a rather…delicate matter, you understand? I'd prefer to talk about it in private."

Autor's heart rate had been steadily climbing during this whole exchange, and at this latest request he felt as though his heart would pound itself right out of his chest. With excitement he thought: _This_ _is_ _it!_ _This_ _is_ _your_ _chance_ _to_ _get_ _closer_ _than_ _ever_ _to_ _the_ _Corvos!_ But immediately, the cautious part of him fretted: _What_ _is_ _she_ _planning?_ _Could_ _this_ _be_ _a_ _trap?_

A mental tug of war ensued, and he found himself stuttering as he tried to respond intelligently, "I-I'm not very good with drinks, that is to say, it's illegal and—"

"Oh, don't tell me you believe in all that sobriety nonsense?" Rue admonished him. Then, she gazed right into Autor's eyes, her lips curling upward temptingly. "Don't you worry, we won't get pinched at this place; I guarantee it."

With that one look, that one small smile, Autor's defenses were broken, and half an hour later he found himself looking at a non-descript building squeezed between a soda shop and a laundry, whereupon Rue had the taxi driver drop them both off across the street.

As Autor climbed out of the cab and approached the location, the bespectacled young man watched as a young couple stepped up to a door on the side of the building. They knocked, and after saying something to whomever was inside, he saw the man slip something that looked like a bill through a small sliding hatch.

As the taxi drove off and Rue walked up to Autor, the couple stepped into the opened door, which closed just as promptly as it had been opened. "This way," Rue said as she walked up to the doorway.

She rapped once on the wooden door, and from the small sliding hatch a pair of hooded eyes peered out at them suspiciously. When they caught on Rue however, the eyes grew wide and the door was hastily opened.

Rue gestured for Autor to follow her. As Autor walked through the threshold of the doorway he could make out chords of lively jazz music and a heavy waft of cigarette smoke in the air. The doorman led the two of them to another pair of doors, and when the doors opened a blast of raucous music pummeled Autor's ears.

The ballroom-sized space in front of him bore no resemblance to the bland façade of the outer building. A bar—abuzz with thirsty patrons—ran the length of the entire room and featured a well-stocked cabinet with a plethora of fine liquors. There was a live jazz band, belting out song after song as people took to the large dance floor in the center of the room, their heels clicking and tapping away with spirited abandon. Others sat on the varnished wood and plush leather furniture —often with a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other—talking and laughing openly.

But what really caught Autor's attention was the big sign in the doorway where he and Rue stood. On it, neon lights—something that Autor had only before seen in photographs—spelled "THE NEST" in large bold letters, enveloping the entrance area in an eerie red glow.

A small statured man appeared from the crowd and greeted Rue. She said something back to the man, though Autor could not hear what was said above the clamor of music and other voices. The man motioned for them to follow him and Autor scanned the crowd as they made their way towards the back of the speakeasy. Judging from the furs, jewelry, and brands the patrons were sporting, this was a distinctly affluent group. Autor was even surprised to recognize some of the faces he saw here, including two city officials, a public trustee, and a police commissioner.

 _No_ _wonder_ _Rue_ _guaranteed_ _this_ _place_ _was_ _safe_ , Autor thought dryly as the pair were led up a staircase to a private lounge overlooking the stage. Though the music still drummed relentlessly into his ears, the volume was lower than it had been downstairs and Autor could now hear what Rue said to the small man.

"A bottle of your best port wine," the actress said as she shrugged off her coat and hat into the arms of their waiter.

The black suited man nodded, and after collecting Autor's outer garments as well, he disappeared down the stairs, leaving the reporter alone with Rue. Autor walked to the edge of the lounge, and stood at the railing to look down at the stage. Below him the trumpets and trombones swung from side to side in time with the infectious beat, the bright brass of the instruments gleaming under the spotlights. Despite the freezing conditions outside, the room was sweltering, with sweat glistening on the brows of the dark-skinned musicians along with those of the audience as their frenzied dancing continued.

"So, what do you think?"

Autor turned to Rue, who gazed at him with expectant eyes. "It's very grand," he replied, sitting down at the table just as the waiter returned.

Autor watched as their server set down a platter of fruits and opened the wine bottle with a small 'pop', pouring the dark garnet liquid into a decanter. "I mean, this is actually my first time in such an…establishment, but it's very lively here. Do you come here often?"

Rue chuckled and picked up the decanter. She poured the port wine into both the glasses, and then picked up the glass closest to her. Swirling the contents around the glass, Rue closed her eyes and breathed in the rich scent of the wine before bringing it to her lips. "Once in a while, when I feel like I need to quench my thirst."

She arched an eyebrow at Autor, who sat still studying her, his hands folded on his lap. "You should try it; it's a 40-year-old vintage from Douro."

Flitting his eyes onto the glass before him, Autor hesitated. "But I…I'm supposed to be on official business for the bureau…"

Rue laughed. "Oh don't worry, I won't tell," she said, raising her glass to him, "this will be just between you and me."

Emboldened by her gesture, Autor plucked up his wine glass by its stem. Copying Rue, he brought the glass to his face, closed his eyes and inhaled. The vibrant aroma of the wine was sweet, and seductive.

 _Just_ _like_ _her_ _…_ a voice whispered in Autor's ears. He hastily swallowed the thought with the wine, and a rather exceedingly large gulp of it.

Rue watched the bespectacled young man with half-lidded eyes as he quickly put his glass back down, coughing and clearing his throat. "E-excuse me…I-I'm not very g-good at this…"

As he reached for the handkerchief in his pocket, a pair of soft pale hands held his outstretched hand in place, and he glanced up to find Rue sitting right next to him, her face inches from his. Autor's eyes widened and his face flushed, though it was impossible to tell how much was from the wine and how much was from Rue's extreme proximity to him.

"Can I trust you with a secret, Autor?" she whispered into his ear, her breath brushing against his flaming cheeks.

Autor could only sputter, "Wha-what do you mean?"

"I like you, Autor—I meant it when I said so earlier. It's so hard to find someone trustworthy and truthful nowadays." She edged closer to him, her knees touching his thigh. "You certainly are a swell fellow, cultured and gentlemanly as you are, so I feel like I can be honest with you."

"Well, I'm honored that you think so highly of me, Miss Legna—I mean, Rue." Unsure where this was headed, Autor focused on the actress's earnest face, trying to not let her touch distract him.

Picking up their wine glasses again, Rue passed Autor's cup to him. "As you probably know," Rue pensively swirled the port in her wine glass with her forefingers, "my father is quite the figure in this city. When he had stepped off Ellis Island he had scarcely a dollar in his pocket and only some old clothes in his trunk. He was a hardworking man, a smart man, and he made himself into what he is today with hard work and tireless effort. As his daughter I have seen all this, and yet…"

Here the raven haired young woman glanced down and took a deep breath. Had Autor been less entranced he would've recognized this as one of her signature dramatic pauses, often seen on screen in her movies.

"You've probably heard them before, all of those awful rumors…that Daddy is involved with criminals, that he consorts with murderers and thieves! He's one of the great citizens of the city. Can you believe this bushwa people are spouting?"

Surprised by her assertion, Autor wondered silently if maybe Rue really had no idea about her father's "enterprises". Taking a smaller sip of the wine this time, Autor cleared his throat before he said, "Well, that's just talk, isn't it? You shouldn't let idle gossip bother you."

"Oh, but it _does!_ To see Daddy's reputation sullied like this! And the police certainly are no help; they've been dogging us for so long now." She crossed her arms. "I'm sure you've heard about that bribery case from two years ago? It caused a huge, ridiculous racket, and all because of someone trumpeting up charges that the police made up." Her eyes narrowed. "I'll bet that what they're _really_ after is for the right chance to get a big, fat pay off from Daddy, those greedy mongrels."

Turning to Autor, Rue looked at his eyes inquiringly, "Though I don't suppose everyone agrees with that sentiment. What do _you_ think about our city's 'finest'?"

"I can't say I have much love for the police, either," Autor confided. He recalled Fakir's response to his project and scowled, his pride still bruised from the mental blow. "I've had an encounter with one recently, a real arrogant bastard he was."

"So I see I'm not the only one who thinks so, then!" Rue laughed and raised her glass to her companion.

After both of them had downed another swig of their wine, Rue asked, "If you don't mind me asking, what did this old mulligan* do to you?"

"Oh, he's not Irish. His parents were Portuguese, with some Moorish blood on his mother's side, I think. Fakir Romeiras is his name."

His eyes peering down into the wine glass in his hand, Autor didn't notice Rue's eyes widen, and then narrow in the dim light of their lounge. Rue wanted to ask him to tell her more, but she didn't need to, as Autor continued without prompting.

"He's rude and full of himself _and_ his own opinions. I spoke with him about a story…that is, a story I was working on, at the time," Autor said after a pause, his mind beginning to feel sluggish, but even in his muddled state he knew better than to expose his modus operandi. "I went to the police to ask for some information on the story I was working on, but was turned away, flat out dismissed because he thought my story was a waste of time." He sighed curtly. "I don't know how his neighbor puts up with him, or for that matter, why she'd go to an opera with him. Though she was a bit of a strange girl too, very odd name."

By now Rue was sitting flush against Autor, and she goaded him eagerly, "Yes?"

Autor blinked, his mind clouded like a thick, opaque fog. "Her name was…it was some sort of bird, I think…ah, Duck! That's her name. No mistaking it."

"…Duck?"

Autor looked over and nodded at Rue, who was staring at him aghast. "Yes, I know, funny name isn't it? I wonder where her family got the idea for that name. It's so odd," Autor chuckled, taking another drink from his glass and Rue laughed with him in disbelief, but for an entirely different reason.

The likelihood of two girls being named "Duck" in New York City was almost zero. But even then, Rue had to know with absolute certainty if this "Duck" who Autor was speaking of was the same person she met at the pointe shoe shop. So, she pressed him, "Tell me, what does she look like? Does she actually _look_ like a duck?"

By now the alcohol, the heat, and the cacophony from below were noticeably addling Autor's mind. Blearily, he replied, "She had r…red hair, and she has a loud voice, which is kind of duck-like…I suppose. But, I didn't get a very good look at her, so I can't say if she actually…waddles when she walks, or anything…"

Rue glanced away, her expression guarded. That account was confirmation enough. It was the same girl.

She turned back to Autor, hoping to pry more details out of him, but his head was already wilted drunkenly toward the back of the coach. Sure, she could try to get more information out of him, but trying to extract information out of a half-conscious, thoroughly intoxicated young man was almost as feasible as trying to interrogate a dead body.

Rue sighed resignedly, and after summoning their waiter, arranged to have the staff hail a taxi to take the groggy reporter home.

Once Autor had been carefully escorted down the steps, Rue stood at the railing, watching the crowd below her thoughtfully.

It could have been a fluke that Duck the shop girl she knew was neighbors with her family's archenemy, but the fact that Rue had also ran into Duck that day at the opera, along with this recent tale from Autor, made her begin to wonder if all this could have occurred merely by coincidence. Was there some kind of connection between them?

She remembered what her father had said: it was possible that the detective had come to the opera to look for Mytho. But if Duck had attended the opera _with_ him…

Rue frowned. Duck had been unaccompanied during the whole time Rue was with her at the opera, which implied the girl and the detective weren't particularly close, so it was unlikely he had a purely personal reason for such an invitation. If not, then what other reason could there be? In any way she looked at it, their association seemed out of place.

The Corvo family had been searching tirelessly for the witness that the detective had gotten ahold of, whose identity somehow managed to continually elude them. Normally the police would periodically contact their witnesses to ask further questions about the crime, or inform them about a court date. All this would be recorded and in the past the family's informant within the police department had been able to uncover the identity of witnesses from paperwork or idle chatter amongst the officers. But in this instance there was nothing; no slip of the tongue, no paper trail.

It would appear as though there had been no further contact between the police and the mysterious witness since he or she was first identified, a fact that Rue knew was impossible for a case of this magnitude. The far more likely scenario was that the police had the witness under their custody somewhere, someplace. Rue was sure Fakir, as the lead detective on the case, must be the one guarding and making contact with the witness.

But that brought up another conundrum. Based on the preliminary inquires Orecchie had made in the last two days about the detective's habits, Fakir appeared to have a well established routine. Their source within the police force confirmed that Fakir never left the precinct office for long periods of time unless he was called out to work on a case, and most of the time he would be accompanied by at least one fellow officer. And as for his personal habits, according to the manager of the building he lived in, he always left and came back from work at about the same time each day and stayed at home on the weekends. This was unusual for a police officer, as they usually worked long, odd hours, but this detail in and of itself was not alarming.

Rue ran over the information their spy had sent her father earlier in the day, her mind completely blocking out the noises of the speakeasy. Based on what they know so far, it was unlikely the detective had a breadth of time where he could go off by himself to see the witness. The building Fakir lived in did not have telephone connection, so he must conduct his interview with the witness some other way. Communicating through the mail was an option, but the likelihood of a letter getting lost and the delay made it seem improbable.

Then what about the simplest, most direct way? Perhaps the detective kept the witness under constant supervision, close to him… _in_ _plain_ _sight._

Rue chewed her lip, her mind racing. If that was so, could it be possible that, rather than Fakir looking for Mytho on his own, the detective had instead brought his witness along, not only to continue supervising the witness, but to ID Mytho for him as well? Then, wouldn't it mean that the witness had all along been… _Duck?_

Grimacing, Rue internally shook her head. No, she was letting her imagination run away with her. There were too many things that were unknown to her at this point. It could have been just as likely that the detective needed a companion for the opera in order to appear less conspicuous, and so simply dragged his convenient next door neighbor along. There was no need to assume from this one incident that Duck and the detective's case were related. Besides, how unbelievable a twist of fate would it be if the witness they had been searching for all this time simply waltzed into the opera and made small talk with the Corvo's daughter herself?

In any case, it still aggravated Rue that the stubborn thorn in her family's side might have for whatever reason saddled himself with this shop girl, whom Rue reluctantly acknowledged she had taken a liking to during their first meeting. So the actress had to admit to herself as well that the mere notion of Duck's involvement would continue to pester her anyway if she didn't make some sort of effort to put her wild speculations to rest.

Luckily for Rue, her father had already planted an agent near Fakir. It wouldn't be that much more work to keep an eye on his neighbor too.

With that in mind, Rue turned to the server waiting behind her.

"Contact Orecchie and tell him to come see me: I have another assignment for him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jazz was not universally accepted when its popularity exploded in the 1920's. And Autor in this universe, being more of a traditionalist, both musically and morally, would probably have agreed with conservative opinions about this new "decadent" and "immoral" form of music.
> 
> * A "mulligan" is a 1920's slang term for an Irish cop, because there were—and still are—a lot of Irish-American police officers in New York City. The reason for this is that during and after the Great Famine in the mid 19th century in Ireland, millions of Irish immigrants came to America and many settled in New York City. There they took up jobs that were underpaid at the time, such as policing and fire fighting.
> 
> Brownie points to anyone who knows what Autor had for dinner.
> 
> Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	12. Chapter 12

A freezing gale heralded the arrival of a cold, snowy week ahead. Outside the Corvo residence, the bare branches of the trees in the bleak, uninviting city swayed with each chilly gust. Rue observed from a window overlooking the streets below as huddled figures scurried to their destinations so that they might sooner escape the bone-deep chill of a Manhattan winter.

One of the pedestrians discreetly peeled away from the rest, and as Rue watched him, the man separating from the crowd walked up the stairs leading to the front door of her father's abode before disappearing from her field of view. Rue leisurely affixed a cigarette to its ivory holder and lit the tip.

A few minutes later there was a slight shuffle of feet outside her door, and then a brisk knock.

"Come in."

The door clicked open, and through the reflection in her room's windowpane Rue watched her father's preferred spy step into the room. He was bundled up in a thick coat and scarf; a pair of small eyes peered out from under a wide brimmed hat.

"Good morning, Miss. I was told you have a task for me," he said a hushed, respectful voice.

"Yes. A little extra assignment on top of what you're doing for Daddy right now."

Still facing the window, Rue took a puff of her cigarette and said, "I want you to also keep an eye on that detective's neighbor. Her name is Duck Stannus and she works at the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop on C Street in the Bronx." She paused as she lowered her cigarette slightly. "I want to know about her habits: when she leaves for work, when she returns home, where she goes in her spare time, who her friends are."

If Orecchie was surprised by this order he did not show it openly. "I take it then, the boss suspects she's involved in this business of ours?" he ventured cautiously.

"Not exactly. We don't know what information this girl might have—I met her once by chance," she added. Keeping her tone even, almost nonchalant, she went on, "Recently I found out she's neighbors with that pest of a detective. So I thought if I could find out more about her routine, I could plan ways of getting closer to her, and maybe learn some useful information about that Romeiras fella."

"Of course," Orecchie nodded. "I will report my findings to you, and to the Don as well—" he began but was quickly cut off by Rue.

"No, just bring your report of the girl to me," Rue said firmly, before loosening her tone again. "I mean, Daddy's very busy, isn't he? I don't want to distract him with a trivial sidetrack like this; I will inform him of any important information myself. If nothing urgent comes up, just report back to me in a few days, but inform me immediately if you find a lead. That'll be all for now."

The spy acquiesced and excused himself with a meek lowering of his head.

As Orecchie made his way to exit the mansion he came across Don Corvo, who had just arrived back home and was in the process of handing his coat and scarf off to his bodyguard.

"Orecchie, what are you doing here? Something to report?"

Don Corvo walked towards the spy, a dubious eyebrow furrowed. Knowing better than to keep information from the Don, Orecchie promptly answered, "Good morning, Boss. Miss Corvo called me over to convey some new instructions. I just finished speaking with her and was on my way out."

"Rue?" Don Corvo narrowed his eyes. "What did she want with you?"

"She asked me to keep an eye on the copper's neighbor," he answered without hesitation, "a girl named Duck Stannus, whom the missus says she'd met before by chance. It seems Miss Corvo wants to see if this girl might prove useful to us before reporting the findings to you."

The patriarch frowned. No one other than Don Corvo himself was allowed to revise orders he had expressly given, and Rue of all people should have known this beyond a doubt. That she had called over Orecchie on her own volition in the first place was already suspicious, but ordering a separate investigation without his prior knowledge? If there was one thing Don Corvo absolutely did not tolerate, it was subterfuge.

However, Rue was also unlikely to conduct such a bold scheme behind her father's back without a strong reason behind it. The girl could be onto something, regardless of why she was keeping it secret. It was more worth letting her take this ploy a little further right now, Don Corvo decided, than slapping her hand straight off and perhaps losing a valuable lead they might have otherwise discovered.

So to Orecchie, Don Corvo said, "Do as Rue had told you, but you will report anything you might uncover to _me_ first. Understood?"

"Yes, Boss. I'll certainly do that," Orecchie lowered his head respectfully and took his leave of the Corvo patriarch.

Once Orecchie had gone, Don Corvo returned to his study. When he opened the door, he found the family butler waiting in the room with a yellow envelope in hand. "A telegram arrived while you were away, sir."

Upon hearing this Don Corvo snatched up the envelope and took out the message inside, and as soon as his eyes skimmed across it, his thin lips curled into a smug grin. "Hmph! Indeed it was only a matter of time!" he exclaimed. "Time and again it's been proven true, 'Money alone sets all the world in motion!'*" So saying, he tossed the telegram and envelope into the fireplace.

As the hot embers lit the paper aflame, the telegram tipped to one side, revealing the words: "Offer accepted Will get name at first opportunity" before the document curled up and the words burned up into a wisp of black smoke.

* * *

The pale winter sun peered down upon the city as its residents began digging out from beneath the fresh snow. The nearly week-long front had dumped a considerable amount of it on the gray metropolis, leaving behind thick snow banks in its wake.

Despite the bleak cold, Duck was glad that at least the sun was out again and she didn't have to walk through the driving wind and the relentless chilly flurries of snow to get to work each day. With the clear weather, Duck was able to pause to admire the Christmas decorations in the shop front windows as she and Fakir walked abreast down the street towards the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. It was now just a week shy of Christmas, and seeing the display of holiday festivities around her brought a bright smile to the red haired girl's face.

She stopped in front of a miniature Christmas tree decorated with colorful candies in the window of a confectionery store. Wanting to tell Fakir about it, she turned to him and opened her mouth to speak, but the jovial words melted away on her tongue when she saw the worn, distance expression on Fakir's face.

The dark shadows under his usually sharp eyes clashed greatly with Duck's good cheer, and one look at those dismal eyes puffed out her cheerfulness like a candle. Duck left the colorful shop window behind, her smile having sobered into a frown.

It seemed like such a long time ago, reflected the shop girl, even though it'd been little more than a week since the night of the opera. Fakir hadn't spoken to her much since then. Duck thought she'd be glad that Fakir had stopped breathing down her neck, but seeing the faraway look in his eyes the past few days, Duck found herself worrying about his own wellbeing instead.

He still accompanied her to and from work every day, appearing by her door in the morning, and in the evening waiting—with the evening post in hand—for her across the street from where she worked. Yet despite the consistency of their routine, she'd noticed these increasingly dark shadows under his eyes and how his lips were drawn thin in a perpetual frown, constantly brooding over something. Duck had a fair guess what that something was.

One night after he went back into his apartment, she had stood outside his door, her hand half raised, but stopped when she realized she had no idea what she would say to him. _Mytho was his friend, after all_ , Duck thought as she retreated into her own apartment, sparing one last look at Fakir's closed door. _Even though Fakir made up his mind to arrest Mytho, it still must be really hard for him._

Instead, she'd pressed her nose against the glass of her bedroom window to catch a sideway glance at Fakir's window. Every evening the light from his bedroom remained lit into the wee hours until Duck, pressed for sleep, had to retire for the night herself.

Things continued this way for days, and today she found Fakir waiting in the hallway as usual and they set out after Duck locked her door. But to Duck's surprise, instead of walking behind her as he'd always done, Fakir had settled himself squarely to her right, keeping even pace with her.

Duck could only assume from his behavior that he had something to say to her, but thus far he hadn't uttered a word or even looked at her since they had left their apartment building. Whatever it could be, Fakir seemingly could not bring himself to tell her, and now with only a few more blocks to go before they would arrive at the pointe shoe shop, the suspense was beginning to strain Duck's nerves.

 _Somehow_ , _Fakir manages to be frustrating even when he's not_ saying _anything!_

Distracted by her frustrated thoughts, Duck didn't pay attention to the uneven pavement half-hidden beneath the lingering snow, and she stumbled when her foot hit a raised edge in the concrete.

"Wha-!" Duck tumbled forward but a hand quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her upright before she could fall.

"Be careful, idiot."

Duck looked up at Fakir, his hand still on her arm. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but snapped his jaws shut before any words escaped. The corners of his lips tightened and he released Duck's arm before stepping back and continuing forward, though Duck could still feel the lingering pressure from his hand through her wool coat. She picked up her pace and was soon by his side again.

Deciding enough was enough, Duck began carefully, "Um, are you alright, Fakir? I know you've been staying up really late lately and you haven't been looking so good. Is it because of Myt—"

She stopped herself and hastily looked around her before continuing, "I mean, that case?"

Fakir glanced down at Duck, and seeing the genuine concern exuding from her azure eyes, his shoulders drooped wearily.

Taking a breath, he confided, "I've made up my mind on what I have to do, Duck. Mytho remains a threat to the city as long as he continues to work for the Corvos. I can't let him remain at large; he must be caught. But I realized that in itself is a problem."

"What do you mean?" Duck wondered aloud as they stepped slowly in tandem down the street, other pedestrians around them passing the pair by.

"When there's enough evidence to positively identify a suspect, a warrant for his arrest will be issued and distributed to all of the precincts in the city," Fakir explained, keeping his voice low. "Even if the warrant is issued only within the force, word will get out and it'll only be a matter of days or even hours before the mob catches word of it." His eyelids lowered. "Once the mob knows Mytho is wanted, he'll go into hiding right away for sure, and with the Corvo's connections he may very well leave the city, or even the country entirely. For all we know, he might have already done so after meeting me at the opera house."

He took a deep breath and rested his hands in his coat pockets. "If that happens, then it would only make apprehending him all the more difficult. It would be a nightmare for law enforcement, as the more a man is chased, the more he will try to resist arrest, and sometimes at any cost."

Though Duck didn't quite understand the legal process Fakir described, she felt she understood what he was concerned about. "In other words… you're worried that if he ends up on the run, then it could get dangerous?"

"For him, and for others as well," Fakir acknowledged grimly.

A body riddled with bullets, crumpled in a pool of blood. A shoot out would almost certainly result in loss of life, and more than likely on both sides. Mytho, as he was now, was indisputably a dangerous man, and judging by the murder Duck herself had witnessed, he had no qualms using heavy firepower to achieve his ends.

Fakir had already lost his parents to a deadly hail of gunfire; he didn't want to lose his childhood friend to that fate as well, no matter how much Mytho might've gone astray. "The safest way to avoid such a scenario is to track him down on my own first, without notifying the rest of the police force, so that the chance of him taking flight would be minimal."

His brows creased more deeply with apprehension. "But to find him on my own in a city this vast…that would be an almost impossible feat."

They stopped at a crosswalk alongside other pedestrians standing, waiting for the traffic to clear. Fakir's eyes surveyed the stream of vehicles, flitting back and forth between them aimlessly, his mind weighted down by the dilemma.

"Charon has been away for the past few days at a meeting, and even though I should've wired him immediately about Principe's identity, I didn't," he said to the air, eyes still going to and fro. "I'd been debating with myself what my next step should be, but now I've run out of time. Charon will be back in the office today and he'll invariably ask about my progress on the Corvo case."

After a pause, Fakir admitted, "Still, I… find I am unable to bring myself to tell him about Mytho." Duck could hear the shame and worry permeating his voice.

This really was a pickle, Duck grimaced to herself. She could understand now why the problem had preoccupied him all week. If Fakir publicized Principe's identity he risked Mytho taking flight, but if he didn't then he would have to attempt to track down Mytho on his own, and with no leads that was like finding a needle in a haystack.

A decision had to be made today, and she had a feeling this would only be the first of many tough choices Fakir would have to face if he continued to pursue Mytho. But standing at an impasse like this was not a solution. If only they had a clue that could lead them to Mytho…

 _There is that…_ Duck blinked, recalled the fleeting look of surprise on Mytho's face when he'd seen her at the gala. _I don't know; it might not be of any use_.

Duck glanced back at Fakir. _But, just maybe.._.

Around them the people started to move without Fakir even noticing. But suddenly, Duck grabbed his hand and the detective found himself being yanked forward as they rushed across the street ahead of the crowd.

Clutching onto his hat to keep it from flying off his head, Fakir yelled, "What are you doing?"

Duck did not answer him, only letting go of him after they reached the other curb. Turning pointedly to him, she said, "You can't keep sitting on this forever, Fakir. I know it'll be hard to find him in a city this big, but you managed to find _me_ that other time, didn't you? All you need is some kind of clue, and I, well…"

Duck trailed off, biting her lips and glancing sidelong. This had never been something she was happy talking about, but at this point her own comfort didn't matter. She couldn't bear to see Fakir languish like this. Duck wanted to help him move this case forward so that, as Rachel had pleaded her to help with, Fakir might be able to move on from the past.

It was not pity, but the desire to help a friend, she realized. Though she thought it strange that she now considered Fakir as such, she couldn't deny how she truly felt.

 _He'll probably be mad at me for not telling him this earlier_ , she thought, steeling herself. Duck took a deep breath and met Fakir's eyes. "There's something… I haven't told you yet."

Fakir stiffened, and he focused his full attention on Duck as she told him quietly, "When I ran into Mytho at the party, he said something to me: he said my mother's name."

"Your mother's name?" Fakir asked, confused.

"He said, 'Elsa'. I'm sure of it," Duck explained. "I do look quite a bit like Ma, everyone says so. And you had mentioned that Mytho came here to attend a dance school, so maybe Ma was his teacher at one point, and that he might've studied at the studio where Ma used to work."

Fakir stared at her, incredulous. _First she told me she'd met Rue, and now she tells me Mytho knew her mother._ _Christ, next thing you know she'll be saying her grandfather was old friends with Domenico Corvo!_

He massaged the bridge of his nose while Duck watched him nervously. "Umm… are you mad at me now?" she whispered, her chin tucked timidly close to her chest.

Fakir gave her a long tired look, before sighing, "No, I'm not."

Duck blinked, her eyes widening. "Really?"

He shook his head dismissively. "Stop worrying about things like that."

This new information Duck had revealed was completely unexpected, but it now changed things considerably. The dark haired officer furrowed his brows, pondering it over. One of the problems he had with finding Mytho on his own was the fact that he had no idea what Mytho's habits were here in the city, and thus did not know where to start looking for him.

However, this dance studio possibly could provide some useful leads for him to work with. It may still be grasping at straws, but it was definitely better than nothing.

While Fakir considered this, Duck stood by, watching him curiously. Then the detective turned to her and asked, "Do you know if this dance studio is still in business?"

"Yeah, or at least it was the last time I passed by, which was about two months ago. It's called Crown Dance Studio."

Duck gave Fakir the address for the studio, which he jotted down in his pocket notebook. While the detective tucked his pen away, Duck wondered aloud hopefully, "You think this will be helpful in finding Mytho?"

Fakir shrugged. "I don't know what happened to Mytho after he came to New York. I can't begin to guess where he might be now; I could, however, try to piece together what had happened to him after he came to the city and how he might've became involved with the Corvo family. That might give me some clues as to his current whereabouts and associations." He readjusted his hat with his right hand. "It's a long shot, but it's all I've got, so until I get Mytho's side of the story from himself in person I'll have to see what I can find out myself."

Duck let out a relieved sigh. "That's good. I really hope it will work out," she smiled. Fakir watched Duck's earnest eyes and her infectious hope brought an unbidden smile to his lips.

Lowering his head down toward his watch to conceal the unwitting smile, he remarked, "Yes, well…enough dilly-dallying. You do realize you're late for work again? It's already five past the hour."

That comment succeeded in knocking the smile clean off Duck's face as she gasped in horror.

"Oh, drat! Not _again_!" Duck peered down at the watch on Fakir's outstretched wrist before letting out a whine and consequently dashing down the street towards the familiar pointe shoe store without another word.

With no one around to catch him in the act, Fakir allowed his smile to linger as he watched her disappear into the store, before turning around to continue onward to the police station, unaware that another pair of eyes in the crowd followed him closely.

* * *

The 53rd police precinct was located in a three-story building that was originally an old apartment complex. As such the hallway inside was narrow and cramped, giving the beehive-like interior a perpetual stuffy atmosphere.

Taking off his hat and coat, Fakir strolled past officers escorting arrestees to and from the holding cells, the floor filled with voices of the law, the lawless, and the hopelessly drunk. Most of the people incarcerated had been picked up the previous night for drinking, bootlegging, or both, along with a smattering of thieves, streetwalkers, and thugs rounding out the arrestee population.

Leaving the hectic first floor behind, Fakir climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor where two plaques, one titled "Robbery", and the other above it "Homicide", hung on the wall near the entrance.

Walking towards his own desk, the question of what to tell Charon still weighed heavily on Fakir's mind. He absentmindedly hung his hat and coat on the nearby rack and set about organizing and updating the paperwork on his desk.

He managed to distract himself for a time, working on these unrelated cases, but the work was all too soon finished.

Fakir looked up at the clock. It was now almost nine, and the captain was probably in his office by now. On any normal day he would go see Charon at around this time, but today Fakir hung back at his station, staring blankly at the typed paper lying on the desk in front of him.

Charon had been his supervisor since he had entered the force, and Fakir respected the man immensely, not only for his mentorship, but also for his insight, humility, and most importantly, trust. As the youngest detective to have ever worked this precinct, there was a lot of skepticism about his abilities when he first joined the force. At the time, most people saw him as the foolish law student who, instead of opting for a cushy life as a lawyer after graduation, had chosen the drab and dirty existence of police work.

However, Charon had been open to him from the start and treated his earnest energy with a patient and understanding hand. Fakir had sought Charon's advice on cases many times and had gotten valuable feedback and assistance in return. He had never before withheld information from the captain, nor had he ever envisioned he would have felt it necessary.

 _It's for the good of the case,_ he asserted to himself as he finally rose from his desk. _As soon as I get on a good lead, I will tell the captain straight away_. With files in hand, he made his way to meet the captain.

It appeared to be a particularly busy day in the precinct, and Fakir passed several of his colleagues whisking to and fro across the hallway that separated his desk from Charon's office. Suddenly, a figure came hurtling around the corner next to Charon's office and nearly collided with the dark haired detective.

"Watch out, coming through!"

"Hey, watch where _you're_ going!" Fakir stepped hurriedly to the side, scarcely avoiding being plowed over.

A man with a flat nose and disproportionally large, almost flap-like ears turned around, his wide eyes peering over the top of a towering stack of brown document bags and other miscellaneous file folders. Fakir recognized the man as Batson from the Robbery division, who frankly looked like a thief himself right now as he glanced from side to side nervously.

"What are you doing with all that?" Fakir was compelled to ask, his lips curling downward with bewilderment.

"Oh, it's you, Fakir," Batson whispered quickly, "Sorry, can't talk right now. But if anyone asks, don't tell them I have these files, okay?"

He turned and started to jog down the hall, "Don't worry, I'll put them all back later!"

Fakir arched an eyebrow as Batson disappeared from view. Closing his eyes for a moment and sighing, Fakir turned around and barely took another step forward when a small, lithe figure stepped in front of him.

"Ah! I'm sorry Fakir, I-I was just thinking about something and I didn't see you. I didn't splash any coffee on you, did I?" the bespectacled mint-haired young woman said, as she steadied the wobbling cup of coffee in her hands. Fakir immediately recognized her as Malen, their resident police secretary who, due to her additional aptitude for the visual arts, also doubled as a composite artist when the need arose.

"It's fine, don't worry about it," Fakir shrugged as Malen kept her gaze low to the ground. She'd always been a quiet, diffident person who worked hard at her job, and Fakir didn't want to give the shy secretary a hard time. After all, she wasn't the only person there that day whose mind was on other matters.

Malen started to walk away when Fakir, remembering the direction she had come from, called out to her, "Malen, have you seen Charon today?"

"N-no, I haven't. I wanted to bring him some coffee, but he wasn't in his office when I walked by…" the young secretary explained, when her gaze shifted to something behind Fakir.

Turning around, Fakir saw Charon coming into view down the hall. The captain smiled when he saw them. "Ah, Fakir, Malen! Good morning."

Fakir greeted the captain, and when Charon approached the detective he said to Malen, "There it is! I was looking for that coffee mug. I came in this morning, but it wasn't in my office. Where did you find it, Malen?"

"You left it next to Batson's desk before you left for the meeting, sir. I saw it when I was making coffee this morning, and seeing that you were going to be back today, I thought you might like to have some," Malen replied bashfully.

"I see. I must be getting old, because I have no recollection of leaving that mug behind. Thank you, dear, for both the coffee and for returning my mug," Charon smiled kindly at the young woman who gave a brief nod before hurriedly retreating to her desk.

"I say there, Captain! Fakir!"

Just when Fakir thought he would finally have his interview with the captain, they were once again interrupted, and this time by a high-pitched bark as a very short man came huffing breathlessly towards them

"Have either of you seen the stack of documents that was on my desk last night? I come in first thing this morning and it's gone! Vanished!"

Charon stroked his chin. "Are you sure you hadn't put it away and forgotten about it, Johnny? Because that's what happened last time."

"I'm certain, Captain; I've looked everywhere. Someone _must've_ taken them!" he yipped frantically.

"You might want to check Batson's desk," Fakir said flatly, thumbing in the direction where the large eared man had taken off to earlier.

"Damn it! I should've known it was him!" Johnny howled as he hurried past Fakir and Charon. "Just because we both need those files does _not_ mean he gets to hog them all to himself!"

As the small man rushed off, Charon chuckled, "Well, it seems everyone's in good spirits today, doesn't it?"

Fakir's lips twitched, and while massaging his temples he scoffed, "Yeah, for better or for worse…"

Still smiling, Charon shook his head good-naturedly at the antics of his officers as the two of them made their way into the captain's office. Fakir shut the door cautiously behind him while Charon sat down in his office chair and sipped the still steaming coffee Malen had left behind. "I can't really blame Batson and Johnny for being as frantic as they've been; the holidays are, after all, a busy time for the Robbery unit."

The captain sighed as he pulled back his chair. "How about you, Fakir? Any developments on the Corvo case?"

Fakir started. Although he'd been anticipating the question all along, he still found himself unprepared. He began to stammer, "Ah, n-no, I…"

Charon looked up at Fakir with a quizzical furrow to his brow just as Fakir vehemently shook his head. "No, there's been nothing new," he said quietly before taking a seat across from the captain, not meeting the older man's eyes.

The captain blinked. "Ah… that's not a surprise, sadly. What about the Robinson case, then? Has the coroner's office sent us a report about the cause of death yet?" As Fakir brought out the file folder he had taken along, their conversation thus shifted onto other cases.

 _I'm sorry, Charon, but I have to do this on my own for now_ , Fakir apologized silently as the captain told him about his meeting with the members of Congress in D.C. to discuss the current bootlegging problem. _The sooner I can find a lead, the sooner I can catch up to Mytho. I just hope I won't be too late…_

* * *

"That is what I have found so far, Boss."

Orecchie lowered his head in deference, the grandfather clock down the hall solemnly striking nine in the evening.

Don Corvo remained silent, clasping his hands together thoughtfully while his underling sat in a chair opposite him. The curtains in the dark study were drawn tight, with only the lamp on the Don's desk providing a feeble source of light.

"Very interesting," the Don said at last. "The involvement of this neighbor is proving to be of far more consequence than I could have guessed. And to think that darling little Rue had been the one who chanced upon information like this…"

He twisted the ruby-eyed raven ring he wore back and forth around his finger, his eyes gleaming from beneath lowered eyelids. "It's been a week and there's still no word from our little 'collaborator' within the police. We have been stalled long enough already," the Don growled, rasping his knuckles impatiently on the hardwood of his desk.

 _With this new development, all we need is that name for a final confirmation_ …

A gentle rap came from the door and Orecchie jumped up with alarm. Don Corvo reached out a hand, motioning for him to sit back down before calling out, "What is it?"

"A telegram just arrived for you, sir," replied the deep voice of the butler.

The old man's eyes flashed open wide and he sat up keenly from his chair. "Come in, let me see it!" he demanded as the butler discreetly entered the room and promptly handed him the sealed envelope before taking his leave.

There was no sender's name and Don Corvo tore the yellow envelope open with a letter opener, snatching up the telegram inside. His dark eyes scrolled over the text first once, then twice. Then, he let out a croaking laugh.

"Speak of the devil," the old man murmured with a smirk.

Don Corvo put the telegram back in its envelope and tucked it inside his coat pocket. Still standing, he turned to his seated henchman and ordered, "You may go, Orecchie, and let Rue know about what you have found. Continue to monitor the situation as you have been."

"Yes Boss," Orecchie nodded submissively.

"And one more thing," Don Corvo said, folding his hands together again. "Tell Mytho and the Nitti brothers to see me as soon as possible." A menacing grin spread across his face. "Duck hunting season has begun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Money alone sets all the world in motion," a quote by the Roman writer Publilius Syrus.
> 
> In the old days, telegrams were charged by the number of words in a message. Most punctuation marks did not exist, save for "stop" and "query" (which stood for "period" and "question mark", respectively), and even these cost money. Therefore most people, when sending telegrams, try to word their message as succinctly as possible, without making the wording confusing due to the lack of punctuations.
> 
> Batson, as credited in the English dub, is based on Hammerhead Batson, the bat librarian from the series. Johnny is based on Chihuajuan the chihuahua, also from the English dub credits, with John being the Anglicized version of Juan.
> 
> Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	13. Chapter 13

"I _told_ you, I can't come today, either! What? No, I don't care what the producer said. You just say to him what I've said to you, and if he's not happy with it, then tell him he _and_ his picture can go to hell!"

Rue slammed the telephone mouthpiece noisily back onto its holder, before reclining back into her cushioned sofa as she massaged her temples.

Continuing to abide by her father's orders, she hadn't left the house in over a week save for meeting Autor, but the confinement was wreaking havoc on her work. Movies she'd already signed contracts for had to be put on hold, and with no idea when her period of captivity would end, many of the producers were getting impatient and threatening to take her off the cast.

It certainly did not help that she had seen very little of Mytho during this time. Often he would lock himself in a room with the Don or some number of other family associates clandestinely appearing and disappearing from the house, or sometimes Mytho might leave the house at night, not returning until early the next morning. Rue supposed that he was working on something important for her father, but she dared not inquire while so close to her father's daunting presence.

Mytho was absent again tonight, having taken off shortly after yet another silent dinner. Now sitting in her empty boudoir, Rue was left to brood silently over her frustrations. Though an aspirin would've done more for her headache, the actress instead lit a cigarette and puffed on it crossly. A part of her admittedly resented the fact that although Father had ordered them both to lie low, Mytho was the one allowed more freedom of movement. Yet because it was Mytho, and not just any other man, the favoritism ultimately bore little weight on her mind.

Indeed, what concerned her most at this point was how she could be of most use to her father, and how she could prove herself a daughter worthy of the Corvo family name. Telling a couple of whiny producers to get off her case was the least she could do.

If only she could do more, though, than sit idly in her room waiting for the storm to pass, while the rest of her family worked on their problems without her…

She picked up a crinkled newspaper lying on the table, the wear and tear on it already beginning to show, and reread the article she had already perused multiple times by now. It was the review of _The Bartered Bride_ Autor had penned after their interview. As Rue had anticipated, Autor hadn't mentioned what she had said to him while inside the club. She wondered dryly whether or not part of it was due to him not having remembered much of what had happened anyway, having become drunk after but a single glass of wine.

The interview had not been a complete waste of time though, at least from her end. From him, Rue had discovered that the shop girl she had met in the toe shoe shop was next-door neighbors with none other than her family's arch nemesis.

The thought of Duck drew a shadow over Rue's eyes. No matter how hard she tried to forget the idea, it kept resurfacing in her mind. Yet regardless of whether she could convince herself of it or not, Rue was simply unable to accept the notion that this unassuming girl might have been the dangerous witness they were after all along.

So with each passing day and no word from Orecchie, Rue had only grown more and more apprehensive. Had he found something? Or nothing? Had her father found out she had given Orecchie orders without his permission or not? Why hadn't Orecchie reported back to her yet?

A sudden knock on the door startled Rue, and the newspaper in her hand slipped from her fingers, drifting onto the floor. Fumbling to smash out her cigarette, she took a breath in attempt to clear her head, and called out, "Who is it?"

"It's me, Miss," replied Orecchie.

Rue jumped up from her seat, and in three brisk strides opened the door and ushered the spy in.

"Tell me, what have you found?" she urged as she sat back down on the settee, her gaze fixed upon him.

Orecchie, his head hanging low, answered, "As you had instructed me, Miss Corvo, I've been watching this Stannus girl. It seems there's something very peculiar about her."

Rue's already racing heart began to beat even faster as she demanded impatiently, "Don't beat around the bush; get to the point!"

Orecchie cleared his throat and began his report. "I had first taken note of her when I initially had begun following the detective about, even before you gave me this assignment. I noticed this red haired girl always was with him on his way to and from the precinct. This was odd, but they were neighbors, so it was quite possible they shared similar routines and therefore I didn't think much of it at first.

"But after you called my attention to this girl, I noticed that each day, the detective would stop and buy the evening paper from a boy across the street from the ballet shoe shop where she worked. He'd pause to read the paper until she left the shop, and then they'd walk back to their apartment together. They always kept their distance from each other, hardly ever speaking to one another, except on one occasion. It struck me as very odd."

Orecchie folded his hands. "So one day I asked the newspaper boy about that customer of his. The paper boy told me the man first came to him to buy newspapers 'bout a month ago, specifically three days before Thanksgiving."

Rue's fingers touched her mouth and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. _The day after Alphonse was whacked._

Noting Rue's unease, Orecchie paused before resuming his narrative, "Miss, this boy remembers it clearly because the first time that particular customer bought a paper from him, the man and the red haired girl from across the street had a fight afterward. He couldn't hear much of the argument, except the gal was as mad as a hellcat about whatever it was. Ever since then, they'd been carrying on with the routine I described to you earlier."

A gloved hand rose thoughtfully to his chin. "The paper boy seemed to believe the man was an enamored suitor, but I thought otherwise. As I followed this girl, I saw that the grocer she visits is only a block away from where Alphonse croaked. So I had a chat with some of their neighbors, and it seems the detective only moved in recently."

"How recent?" Rue asked, with the intent to sound probing, but her voice coming out as a whisper. To keep her hands from shaking, she laced her fingers together in her lap.

"Two days before Thanksgiving," Orecchie replied.

A couple of sharp raps on the door made Rue gasp, scattering her thoughts as she snapped her head around. Only halfway standing up, she cleared her throat and managed haltingly, "Wh-who is it?"

"It's me," replied her father's unmistakable deep, hoarse voice.

At this Rue shot up fully out of her chair. On the way to the door, she stopped and glanced back at Orecchie, wondering how she would explain to the Don why she was talking with the Corvo's trusted spy.

"Rue, _open the door_ ," Don Corvo snapped in a far more commanding tone.

Left with no other choice, Rue stepped forward and partially cracked the door open. She looked through the doorway to see the sharp eyes of her father glaring back at her.

"Daddy, i-it's so late…I was going to go to bed soon," she explained, hoping her father would believe her excuse and let her be.

Don Corvo silently cast a sidelong glance at her before striding through the door and entering Rue's room, right past where Rue stood waiting. Orecchie quickly stood up from his chair and bowed his head toward his master.

"Have you done what I told you earlier?" the Don asked his henchman. Rue's eyes darted with confusion from her father to the shorter man across from her.

Orecchie nodded. "Yes, Boss. Principe answered that they'll return the moment they're finished. They ought to be back here within half an hour."

Don Corvo nodded his approval, and waved his hand. "Good. You can go now."

With a diffident bow, Orecchie promptly took his leave of the Corvos, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving the path open between Rue and the Don.

From near the door, Rue cautiously approached her father standing in the center of her room, wondering what the old man was going to do now that he'd caught her speaking with the family's spy, not to mention what her father suddenly needed Mytho for.

Her first concerns were addressed quickly enough when Don Corvo slowly made his way to the couch and sat down. He gazed up at his daughter from beneath half-lidded, shadowed eyes. "Tell me, Rue: why was Orecchie in your room?"

Rue swallowed, and she found her palms sweating at her father's candid question. Not sure how much he already knew of her actions, she decided to play coy. "I-I was worried about the investigation, Daddy," she pushed a smile to her lips and demurely sat down next to her father on the couch. "So I called Orecchie here to ask how the surveillance on the detective was coming along."

"Is that so?" Don Corvo asked darkly, and the young woman stiffened at the coldness in her father's voice. "Rue, I knew about this little ruse from the very beginning: how you wanted Orecchie to watch the detective's neighbor, how you thought you could use your connection to the girl to find out more about the copper himself." His eyes narrowed to slits. "Did you think you were somehow being clever, snooping around in my business like you were?"

The black-clad patriarch stood up and circled the settee ominously, his angry voice booming at her, " _You_ of all people, Rue, should have known that only the Don has the authority to give orders on behalf of the Corvo family. _Despite_ that," he snapped, "you gave Orecchie orders completely on your own, and moreover behind my back, without as much as saying a word to me about it afterward."

Rue sat with her hands clutched tightly in her lap, not daring to interrupt her father's words. Don Corvo planted himself behind Rue, and though he was but a stooping old man, his towering presence gave off a threatening air that made even his own daughter tremble beneath him.

"Do you remember the reason I gave you the name of 'Rue'?" Don Corvo looked down at the cowering young woman.

Her head bowed, Rue whispered, "Yes, Daddy."

"But it seems you've forgotten, so I will remind you now," the Don said, pacing back and forth behind Rue again, the sound of his cane tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. "Even though you are my own flesh and blood, you are not my heir. Only a _son_ could rightfully take over my position as the Don of this family, _this thing_ of ours."* He took a breath and sighed deeply. "I had hoped when you were born that you would be a boy, but alas, you were born a girl. This fact is my greatest regret, my one dearest _'rue'_."

He paused, a rare moment where he seemed to need effort to hold his emotions back. Then he took another breath and continued.

"Even then, my daughter, I still love you. After all," Don Corvo explained, "I raised you after your mother passed away, and provided you with the best education money could buy, so you would never bring shame to the family, and would one day find a man suitable to become my heir."

"However!" His voice rose as he began to scold her sharply, stopping once more in his tracks. "By hiding your intentions from me, you jeopardize the family's interests! And by endangering the family, you endanger _me_ , and all that I've ever worked for!"

The Don's low voice dropped into a chilling, menacing growl. "Having been so ungrateful, do you think you still deserve my love?"

Desperately Rue shook her head. Twisting around in her seat and grabbing her father's hand, gazing up at him she pleaded, "Oh Daddy, please! Please, don't say that! You're the only family I have!" Her voice cracked as she nearly burst into tears, taking all of her self-restraint to keep from doing so. "I'm...I'm so sorry I didn't ask your permission, Daddy! I was only trying to help you—that's all I ever wanted!"

As Rue choked back a sob, Don Corvo lifted her chin up with his hand toward his face, looking her straight in the eyes. Not often was Rue reminded that her distinctive wine red eyes were inherited from her father's dark crimson ones. "Though you have overstepped your boundaries, you have redeemed yourself somewhat by picking up on the trail of this Duck Stannus girl."

Rue's eyes grew wide at these words, and a sickening feeling developed in the pit of her stomach. Don Corvo chuckled, and he drew his hand back behind himself, stepping away from the stunned raven-haired young woman before speaking again.

"I had Orecchie report his findings to me earlier this evening, and at that point I was already convinced that this girl was the witness we were looking for. All we needed was verification from our informant. And lo and behold, just as I was beginning to vex over the matter, a message arrived," the patriarch said as he pulled out the telegram from his suit pocket and handed it to Rue, who grasped the yellow envelope with a shaking hand. "Read it, Rue."

As she slowly took out the telegram, Don Corvo said, "Your actions, though irresponsible, have saved us considerable time in plotting our moves against this witness. For that, you have pleased me."

But all Rue could do was stare down in disbelief at the words "Duck Stannus" printed before her on the pink stationery.

 _So I was right, then_ , a voice murmured in Rue's mind, her pale face contorted in an expression of amazement and horror.

Rue knew what this meant. If they didn't do something about the witness, Mytho would be identified and all their lives would be ruined. And, if Duck was the witness, she had to be eliminated. End of story.

She had privately valued their brief friendship, and sincerely had hoped that the surveillance on Duck would yield another opportunity for her to meet the bubbly girl. But none of that was meant to be.

Any bond that might have existed between her and Duck had to be severed, for as much as she liked the clumsy redhead, she could not save the life of a shop girl in place of the life of the one man she'd given her heart to, the man who would also be her father's heir.

She had no other choice but to accept the situation as it was: she would never see Duck again. Rue could almost hear the cackling voice of Fate in her ears.

A star born in darkness could only bring darkness to those around her.

* * *

Mytho dismissed his two bodyguards and sat alone in the empty study. The night had been excessively long and the discussion with Don Corvo had taken even longer. But at long last, the plan had been fully hatched, and at daybreak it would be set into motion.

Grasping the thick embroidered curtains, Mytho flung them aside and a waning winter moon greeted him, a bright silver crescent in the distance hanging above the rooftops. His eyes still on the moon, his hand reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a small crimson velvet jewelry box.

Snapping the lid open, Mytho looked down with half-lidded eyes at the object within: a small, golden-yellow pendant. The size of a quarter, it was made of a light amber-hued glass hemisphere, with the profile of a woman in art nouveau style on one side of it, like the light of a crescent moon.

He gently stroked the woman's outline with his fingertips, amber eyes gazing longingly at the pendant that matched their hue. Mytho closed his eyes, covering the pendant with his fingers, before opening his eyes again, gently closing the case and tucking it back into his pocket.

After readjusting his suit jacket, Mytho looked back up at the moon with a resolute expression on his face, before drawing the curtains closed against the pale crescent.

* * *

Fakir stepped out of his taxi, and peered up at the sign for the Crown Dance Studio. He headed through the front door, and immediately upon entering he could hear the thuds of many pairs of feet in unison on the hardwood floor, voices calling out the beats to recorded practice music, drawing out inadvertent feelings of nostalgia from him.

Fakir stopped a young woman passing by with burgundy hair done up in a prim bun, who he guessed was an instructor. After showing her his badge, he asked to see the studio's director. The young woman nodded and briskly strode off to return a few minutes later with a pair of adults also similarly dressed as dance teachers.

One of them was a tall, broad-shouldered man, while the other was a slim woman with cropped black hair, the former introducing himself as Paulo, while the latter introduced herself as Paulo's wife, Paulamoni.

"Could we help you with something, Officer?" Paulamoni asked courteously, though from the frown on her face she was clearly concerned by this unexpected visit.

"I'm just here to ask a few questions about a possible former student of yours," Fakir reassured them, though that did not ease the discomfited expressions from the couple's faces. "Do either of you know, or remember, a boy named Mytho who came to study ballet here about eight years ago?"

"Mytho?" The couple asked in unison before exchanging surprised looks at one another.

Turning back to Fakir, Paulamoni replied, "Why, yes, we do. In fact, he was one of our best students."

Fakir's heart leapt at the news, and as he promptly pulled out his pocket notebook he urged them, "Can you tell me more about him? How long was he here for, what did he do while he was here, and how did he get along with the people here? Anything along those lines."

Paulo folded his arms and recounted, "He started here in the spring of 1916, I think. I'm the instructor in charge of the male students here at this school, and I remember being surprised that for a boy who had no previous formal training, he showed amazing aptitude and talent for his age. A natural dancer, he was," the instructor said as a smile grew on his face. "He got along well with everyone, as far as I know. In fact, I remember several of the girls in the beginner's class had quite the crush on him," Paulo remarked with a fond chuckle.

Paulamoni evidently recalled this as well, as she smiled in turn and added, "Ah, yes, and he was so polite and intelligent too. He was a very charming boy, but he was quite well-read too—which also really surprised me, given that he'd grown up in an orphanage."

She sighed, and her brows furrowed, her smile growing bittersweet. "I wish we had more to tell you than that, Officer, but he left around six years ago and we haven't heard from him since. He had run out of money to pay for his tuition and board, you see," Paulamoni explained. "We had been more than happy to offer to let him stay on for free, but he wouldn't have any of that."

She bit her lips. "I understood that he wanted to be a gentleman and not accept other people's pity, but it was truly sad for us to lose such a promising young danseur like him."

"He's…all right, isn't he?" Paulo asked Fakir, his voice filled with concern.

"I…I don't know, but…it's imperative that I learn as much as I can about him while he was here," Fakir said uneasily. Wanting to disguise his own discomfort, he continued right onward with his next question, "What about Elsa? She was an instructor here, right? What was his relationship to her?"

At this Paulamoni's eyes lit up, and she gave a surprised look at the detective. "Elsa? Well…she had been his instructor at the time. Or more specifically, she had been the instructor for the advanced girls' classes as well as the paired classes, of which he was a part."

"How long had they known each other?" Fakir asked, his pencil tip dancing rapidly and intently across the pages of his notebook.

Paulamoni touched her chin thoughtfully. "If I remember correctly, Mytho started paired classes with Elsa in his last year with us here, but he'd met Elsa earlier when he first arrived and she had helped him improve his form. So I would say about two years."

"Were they particularly close?"

"Yes, perhaps a bit more so than the other people at the school. I think Elsa, more than anyone else here, really tried to bring out his potential. I would often see them practicing after class, even after other students had already left for the day. Always very polite and professional with each other," Paulamoni added, as if to avoid giving Fakir the wrong impression.

The detective asked the couple a few more questions, but did not uncover any leads as to who might know where Mytho was now, or where he had gone off to after leaving the school.

Tucking the little notebook back into his pocket, one last question crossed Fakir's mind, and turning to Paulamoni he asked, "By any chance, have either of you ever heard of Rue Corvo?"

"Rue Corvo?" Paulamoni frowned, pursing her lips as she tried to remember, while her husband recalled the name more readily.

"Yes, I have," Paulo nodded. "She, or rather her father, rented one of our studios for her to use privately in the afternoons a number of years ago. The man who paid for her fees said she wanted a quiet place to dance while she stayed in the city." He folded his hands pensively. "I watched her dance once while she was here. She was a great dancer; I remember thinking, t'was a pity she wasn't actually a student here with us."

Fakir narrowed his eyes slightly. "Do you remember when and for how long she rented the studio?"

"I think she began about six years ago, and it lasted for only a few months, from April to early June."

Fakir was silent for a moment, before he looked at Paulo and Paulamoni and said, "I'll contact you if I have any more questions. Do you have a telephone line in here?"

After obtaining the studio's phone number and saying a brief farewell, Fakir stepped back out onto the street, deep in thought.

The revelation that Rue had once rented a studio here, and that the time of her being here overlapped with when Mytho left the school, convinced Fakir that it was likely during this time that the two of them had met. What exactly happened after that he still had no clue, but the valuable information he had just gathered boosted his confidence considerably.

He returned to the precinct with his head filled with theories and ideas about what could have taken place in that dance studio all those years ago.

As Fakir was taking off his hat, he spotted an unfamiliar manila envelope on his desk. He picked up the envelope and flipped it around to examine it, but saw only his name written on the front side.

Trying to figure out where this mysterious delivery had come from, he looked over at Malen, who was working at her desk nearby.

"Malen," Fakir raised the envelope into the air to demonstrate, "do you know where this came from?"

Malen glanced up from her typewriter and pushed up her glasses. "Oh, that. Aren't those the files you wanted delivered here? A boy dropped it off earlier, so I left it on your desk."

Fakir's brows drew together. "But I didn't ask for anything to be delivered to the precinct."

Malen blinked, clearly confused. "Eh? But that's what the messenger boy had said, I'm quite sure of it. It even had your name on the front."

 _Just because something has my name on it does not mean it automatically belongs to me_ , Fakir wanted to retort, but he held himself in check.

Looking back at the envelope, he thought he might as well open it and see what was inside. Without bothering to get a letter opener, Fakir worked his finger underneath one edge of the envelope flap and gingerly tore one of the ends open. With one hand holding the edge of the envelope, he upended the contents and a single black and white photograph fell out into his waiting hand.

Fakir held up the photograph and saw that it showed the tops of some unidentified buildings as if someone was looking up at them from street level. There were no trees, so he couldn't tell what time of year the photo had been taken, save that the sky had been clear that day.

Growing more and more perplexed by this strange package, Fakir turned the photo over, hoping there would be some clue on the back. Instead, what he saw only mystified him further.

_Βρείτε_ _μου_ _στην εορτή_ _των Θεοφανείων_ _._

Fakir could recognize that the letters were in Greek, but beyond that he hadn't a clue what the words meant. Unable to make sense of what any of this was supposed to say, he shook his head with frustration.

"This has to be some kind of stupid prank," he grumbled and shoved the photo with its unintelligible message back into the envelope, before trudging toward the dustbin.

Seeing him about to chuck the packet into the trash, Malen spoke up timidly, "Fakir, are you sure it's alright to throw that away? The boy who delivered it told me that the man who gave him the envelope said it was very important that you receive it."

Fakir's hand clutching the envelope, which had already been half raised above the wastebasket, froze in place as he looked up sharply at Malen. "What man? Do you know who he was?"

Malen shook her head vehemently, "No, just that the boy mentioned the man had white hair and—"

"When was this?" Fakir demanded, his eyes immediately wide and alert. "Are you _sure_ that's what he said?"

Taken aback by Fakir's sudden insistence, Malen shrank back, but nodded, "Yes, I-I'm sure. He said the man had white hair and wore a white suit. As for when the boy had come by…I think it was about 45 minutes ago."

Fakir was now convinced that the person who'd sent this package had been none other than Mytho himself. But what did it all mean? What was Mytho trying to tell him through this photograph and the foreign expression on the back?

The young detective removed the photo from the envelope again and scrutinized the Greek characters more closely. He knew it had to be a message of some sort, but simply staring at these incomprehensible symbols would do him no good at present. Tearing his eyes away from the inscrutable sentence, Fakir flipped the photo over and sought to find some clues from the snapshot itself.

On one of the buildings in the foreground, of which only the upper portions were visible, he took note of a stone cornice with a decorative façade, featuring an eagle standing over a plaque with a "Y" shape in the middle. The side of the building had once been white-washed but due to age the paint near the roof had began to fade, revealing the dark brickwork beneath. To the left of this building, the corner of a shorter building was visible, and Fakir could make out the end of a billboard sign, with the letters "il" visible.

In front of the taller building was a utility pole, and based on the relative height of the pole to the buildings behind it, Fakir deduced that the taller building was three stories tall, while the shorter building was two stories. Finally, in the background, Fakir could make out three smoke stacks, the middle one emitting a plume of thick black smoke.

Fakir grimaced. If this place was in New York, it was not a place he recognized, and even that was a conjecture as the location depicted in the photograph could have been anywhere. It seemed deciphering the Greek writing might prove to be the most feasible thing to do at the moment.

He briefly considered perhaps finding someone who knew Greek to translate the sentence for him, but Fakir quickly squelched that idea. The only person in the department likely to know any Greek was the captain himself, who had been a second-generation Greek immigrant. But how would Fakir explain to him the source of the unusual photograph that had shown up mysteriously on his desk? Bringing the whole matter up to the captain would be much more complicated than he'd want it to be.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Fakir glanced up and saw Malen peering back at him tentatively, and he became aware of how long he must've been staring at the photo while still standing next to her.

He cleared his throat and put the photo away. "Uh…sorry, my mistake. I did ask for this to be delivered, but it…it's just that I had asked for it some time ago and didn't remember that I had until now. So anyway, Malen, do you know if there's a bookstore nearby with a good section on foreign languages?"

"I'm not sure about foreign languages per se, but…there's a bookseller on Jackson Street that I know that has a good section on art," Malen looked down and blushed. "So I think they might also have some language books there too, since—"

But before Malen could finish speaking, Fakir had already strolled past her, adjusting his hat as he went, turning back and saying briskly to her, "Thanks, I'll be right back if the captain asks!"

Once he had arrived there, the store Malen recommended turned out to have a healthy selection of Greek language books for Fakir to peruse. He plucked out a small, practical-looking dictionary, and hurried at once back to the office. Once he had returned to his desk, Fakir carefully took out the photo, positioned it so that people passing by would not readily see what he was working on, and started to translate the sentence.

Working with a completely unfamiliar language was like trying to decipher a code, albeit in this case not a very difficult one. Nonetheless, even with the dictionary's aid, Fakir spent the rest of the afternoon diligently working on sorting out the letters and their meanings. By the time he was done, the sun had already set, and the office had gone quiet as the other detectives had already left for the day and the night shift only beginning to arrive.

His elbows resting on the edge of his desk, Fakir glowered at the paper before him. Lines of ink had crossed out numerous incorrect translations here and there on the paper, mixed in with notes he had taken. At the bottom of the heavily written-on sheet of paper was a clear sentence, circled in black ink.

" _Find me on the Feast of Epiphany."*_

Fakir thought back to an early summer afternoon, when he was still only ten years old. School had been let out for the day, and while other children headed off to play baseball or buy bonbons from the town's soda shop, Fakir instead made a beeline for the St. Vitus Orphanage and Refuge. He carried a short stack of books tied together with a sturdy belt, tucked securely under his arm as the boy ran across town.

When he arrived at the door, a sister who was sweeping the floor had spotted him and after a brief greeting, let the boy in. Fakir headed for the small classroom within the orphanage compound, and paused when half a dozen children came rushing past him after being released from a three-hour long study session, eager to go play in the orphanage courtyard. None of them stopped to ask Fakir to come along and play with them, but the taciturn boy for his part had no interest in their trivial games anyway.

When Fakir failed to spot Mytho amongst the passing cadre of orphans, he continued toward the classroom. When Fakir got there, he finally found the person he'd come to see.

Sitting beside the Father who ran the orphanage, Mytho glanced up when Fakir appeared at the door. The orphanage director—whom everyone called Father Muller*—had kind eyes and a neatly trimmed white beard, and he also noted Fakir's presence. He nodded to Mytho in response when the fair haired boy had looked up at him, mutely seeking permission to be excused.

"We will continue with your Greek lessons later this afternoon," Father Muller smiled at his charge, "and you can practice writing the characters after supper and once the evening chores have been done."

"Yes, Father," Mytho bowed his head, before picking up his notebook and pencil and coming out to meet Fakir. The two then proceeded to head towards the chapel at the eastern end of the orphanage.

In the hallway toward their destination, Fakir readjusted his small stack of books under his arm and began asking, "Why did Father Muller start teaching you Greek all of a sudden?" The pair of boys let themselves into the small, empty chapel as Fakir sat down at his usual spot at the first pew on the right. "He's not expecting you to become a priest, is he?"

At this suggestion, Mytho laughed. "No, actually _I_ asked Father Muller to teach me Greek," he explained, taking off his shoes and sitting down on the concrete floor to start doing his stretches. "He knows both Greek and Latin, and he said he'll teach me how to read the Greek Scriptures."

"But that doesn't explain _why_ you'd want to learn it. I don't see why it'd be of any use, for ballet or otherwise," Fakir stated frankly, unfastening his stack of books and picking up the one on top. That particular book was a brand new detective novel just released off the presses, and he had been long looking forward to reading it—but right now, as Fakir gazed inquiringly at his friend, the Mystery of the Greek Student was of far greater interest to the young boy.

From his sitting position on the ground, Mytho asked, "Fakir, do you know what your name means?"

"Well, yeah…" Fakir set the book down onto his lap. "But what does that have to do with you learning Greek?"

Mytho stood up and rested one foot on the back of the pew as if it was a barre, bending forward to stretch. "Father Muller told me yesterday that my name is derived from the Greek word for 'story'."

He straightened his back and gazed up at the figure of the Madonna and Child above the chapel alter. "I don't know who my mother was, or why I was left at the orphanage—just that she may have been Greek, based on my name. That's why I think if I learn more about the language that she might have spoken, I might learn more about who I am, and who my family was." He closed his eyes thoughtfully. "Maybe she was trying to tell me something, that there is a great story of mine out there for me to discover."

Switching legs, Mytho took a few minutes longer to finish his warm up exercises compared to those of the girls Fakir had seen at the ballet school. When he finally looked back at Fakir, there was a solemn expression on the dark haired boy's face.

"But, what if what you'll find is something you'd rather not know?" Fakir asked, with gravity in his young voice that belied the boy's age. "What if it's not a story you'd want to hear?"

Mytho frowned. "I really don't know. But, if I don't start looking," he said, his expression turning into a small smile, "then I won't know either way, whether it will be a happy story or a sad story. And even sad stories are meant to be heard, right?"

Fakir pondered this over, before picking up the novel that he had set aside. "I guess you're right. You can't tell who the culprit is if you don't get to the end of the book." He pursed his lips, "Unless _you're_ the detective, of course. Then you can find out the answer before you read it."

At this, Fakir remembered that Mytho had laughed heartily, and the chimes of that innocent laughter still rang in the detective's ears. _What is it that you want to show me, Mytho?_ Fakir wondered silently.

Looking back down at his translation, Fakir knew that the Feast of the Epiphany was on January 6th, which wasn't for at least three more weeks. Fakir was sure that the place shown in the photograph was the location Mytho intended to be at on the celebration of Epiphany, but as much as he racked his brains, Fakir could not for the life of him figure out where this place could be. Knowing when but not _where_ something was occurring wasn't going to help him much.

The telephone next to Fakir suddenly rang. Aggravated by the intrusion, Fakir picked up the earpiece and said brusquely, "What is it?"

"Hello, Fakir."

At the sound of Mytho's voice over the crackling phone line, Fakir rose sharply from his desk, nearly knocking his chair over. "Mytho, is that you?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Yes. I admit our last conversation had been somewhat abrupt," Mytho said, though it was hard to hear him through the poor connection as his voice cracked and dipped over the phone line.

"Why are you calling me? No wait, tell me: why did you send me that photo? What are you trying to get at?" Fakir demanded, pressing the earpiece flat against his ear, straining to hear his answer while his other hand picked the photo back up.

"If you have truly accomplished your dream of becoming a detective, Fakir, you'll understand the meaning behind that photo, and where to find me when the appointed time comes."

The connection buzzed as though about to be cut off, and Mytho said, "Before I leave, I just want to remind you: it's not safe to let a young lady walk home from work all alone after dark."

With that the line went dead. It took a full second for the last sentence Mytho had said to sink in.

_Duck. Oh God, they know about Duck._

The earpiece in his hand slipped out with a "clunk" onto his desk, as his eyes widened in horror. He had been so engrossed in his work the entire day, he hadn't realized it was now long past Duck's work hours, and by now she would surely be on her way home. All alone.

A profound feeling of dread seized Fakir's fast-beating heart, and he hurriedly thrust the photo still in his hand into a pocket, grabbed his coat and hat, and with only the thought that he might reach her in time, sprinted as fast as he could through the front doors of the precinct, and towards the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop.

* * *

"Bye, Duck! See you later!" Pique and Lilie called out as they waved goodbye to their friend.

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow!" Duck waved back, and watched as the shop door closed behind them. Turning dutifully back to her work, she picked up the damp cloth and continued wiping down the shop window. Outside the sun had long set and a cold wind was picking up.

Mr. Kotin yawned, daintily covering his mouth as he entered the shop front and set down a pair of newly made toe shoes on the counter. He raised a brow when he saw Duck cleaning the shop display window. "Still working, Miss Duck? I thought you'd already have left with Miss Pique and Miss Lilie by now."

The shop girl stopped in her work to look at her employer and smiled sheepishly, "I want to try to make up a little for being late again yesterday." _Besides_ , Duck turned back to the window, _Fakir isn't here yet either_.

Her hand paused as her blue eyes scanned the street beyond looking for that familiar figure. _He's being awfully late today. I wonder if it's because of Mytho? He did say yesterday that he wanted to stop by the dance studio…_

Duck absentmindedly turned around but nearly jumped out of her socks when she found Mr. Kotin standing right behind her, also peering out the window.

"That young man isn't here tonight," he remarked, stroking his mustache. "He's usually very punctual. Such is a sign of a truly devoted man. Indeed, faith and commitment are two crucial components of a blissful marriage!"

Duck could practically hear the church bells ringing about Mr. Kotin's head, and was about to disenchant him of that idea when he added, "Ah, it reminds me of when that boy used to come by and wait for Elsa. How nostalgic!"

"Eh!" At this Duck's mouth dropped open in surprise. "But Ma never mentioned anything like that to me before…"

 _Could it be…Mytho?_ Perhaps Mr. Kotin had an idea of why Mytho would have known her mother! Thus Duck ventured to ask, "Mr. Kotin? Do you remember what that boy looked like? Or what his name was?"

Mr. Kotin scratched his chin, thinking as he spoke, "Well…I recall that he had snow white hair and such a lovely, handsome face. Elsa mentioned once that he was a student of hers from the studio, that his name was…oh, was it Mute? No, no—Mytho, that's it!"

Duck's eyes lit up at this revelation and she entreated her employer further, "When was this? Do you remember?"

Folding his hands behind his back, Mr. Kotin reflected aloud, "It was a number of years ago, six or seven years I think. He came around here quite often and accompanied Elsa to the studio, and then he disappeared after a few months. I didn't think much of it at first, but about a year afterward, he came by one last time, looking for Elsa."

Here Mr. Kotin turned to Duck and said solemnly, "His last visit came after your mother had passed away and I broke the news to him. He was absolutely devastated. I imagine Elsa had to have been a very special mentor to him for the young man to have such a deep attachment to her."

 _So Mytho_ did _know Ma_! Duck thought excitedly. This information still might not prove to be much use in the case, but Duck was nonetheless eager to tell Fakir of her findings. _Where_ is _he today?_ _He's never been late before, much less_ this _late_.

She glanced up at the clock on the wall. She had needed to stop by the grocer today, but Fakir's absence had delayed her departure much more than she had anticipated. If she didn't leave soon, Mrs. Ebine's was going to close, and then she wouldn't even have wilting cabbage to eat the next day.

Sighing, Duck finally put the rag back into the cleaning supply closet, and after a quick "Good night" to Mr. Kotin, closed the door of the pointe shoe shop behind her and walked out onto the street.

Ever since she'd witnessed the murder, Duck had begun taking a different route to Ebine's store. However, this path was dimly lit in stretches, islands of pale streetlights interspersed among spaces of near pitch darkness. During the daytime when Duck usually traversed the path it was well lit by sunlight, but once the sun had sunk below the horizon, the shadowy streets were much less inviting. Duck apprehensively navigated this otherwise familiar route, more alert and wary now that Fakir wasn't there behind her.

In the distance she could hear the vague droning of motors and the bark of stray dogs that wandered the streets. Dark, huddled figures passed her by, appearing and disappearing within the shadowed zones between the stark lamplights. She didn't think she'd feel Fakir's absence so acutely, but after having had him at her back for so long, without him the night felt much more threatening and sinister.

The longer she walked, the more acutely she sensed that a pair of feet was following her. At first she told herself it was just her imagination, not seeing anyone there the first few times she had glanced behind her to check. But after traveling a few more blocks, Duck turned around just in time to see a dark figure dart into an alley behind her.

Unnerved, Duck picked up her pace and instead of heading towards the grocer as planned, she turned promptly towards home. All she wanted now was to be inside her apartment where it was safe. Marching so rapidly that she was almost running, Duck glanced behind her again and saw that the figure was racing to catch up to her. At this point she broke out into a full-on sprint.

Clutching onto her hat and handbag, she shot past street vendors and other pedestrians, veered around a sharp corner, and dodged through traffic, her heavy gasps leaving a trail of vapor clouds behind her.

After turning another corner, Duck had to pause to catch her breath. She was now only two blocks away from home, and when she looked for the figure that had been chasing her, he was nowhere to be seen along the quiet street.

Relieved that she'd apparently managed to ditch him, Duck started jogging towards home. She had run barely a few yards when a tall figure wearing a fedora appeared from around the corner in front of her.

She sighed in relief before accosting him, "Fakir, where have you been! I was waiting—!"

Duck stopped dead as the figure walked into the lamplight: it was not Fakir at all, but instead one of the two shotgun-toting bodyguards who had carried out that fateful murder, to which she had been the sole witness.

She immediately turned to flee, but the man stalking her earlier seized her from behind and pressed a chloroform soaked towel to her face.

"Mmmmph!" Duck screamed, the towel muffling her voice. She tried to kick and thrash about, but her assailants gripped firmly onto her arms and torso.

They yanked her into a nearby alley, and as the chloroform started to take effect, Duck was dimly aware of a pair of car headlights parked at the other end of the alleyway, before her vision began to blur and fade out.

Suddenly Duck heard a loud noise and the hand holding the chloroform towel to her face fell away and she sank onto the cold concrete. She closed her eyes, her head spinning. When she opened them again, she saw the back of a familiar figure standing over her.

"Fa…kir?" she murmured blearily.

"Duck, run!" shouted Fakir's voice.

Duck's vision snapped back into focus. The dark haired detective had planted himself in front of her, breathing heavily as he fended off one of her attackers, while the other was picking himself off the ground after apparently having been tackled by the detective.

Duck's eyes widened with shock. "F…Fakir!"

"RUN!"

With a sharp whimper, Duck stumbled to her feet and scampered towards the alley's entryway.

One of the mobsters gave chase, and as his hand reached out it would have clasped around Duck's long braid, had Fakir not delivered a solid punch across the man's jaw. The blow sent the mobster to his knees, giving Duck time to dart around the corner and out of harm's way.

Having seen Duck escape, Fakir heaved a sigh of relief. But he was unaware of the second thug who'd picked up a stray plank of wood from the ground and, before the detective could react, struck Fakir soundly on the back of his head.

Fakir collapsed onto the ground. Taking advantage of the detective's dazed state, the man who'd struck him picked up the chloroform soaked towel and pressed it firmly onto his face. Fakir tried to pull the man's hand away, but it was no use. After a few minutes of futile struggling, Fakir's body went limp as he fell unconscious.

As the thug who'd been struck by Fakir massaged his swollen cheek gingerly, his crony with the wooden plank dropped his weapon and the towel to the ground and hurried over to the car parked at the end of the alley.

When the mobster stopped beside the car, the window rolled down, revealing Mytho and Don Corvo sitting in the back seat.

"The girl got away," their underling reported. "What should we do now, Boss?"

Mytho looked to Don Corvo, who was twisting the raven ring on his finger pensively.

"Take the copper with you. We'll just have to cut our losses," the Don said gruffly. "Also, pick up the reporter fellow—we're not leaving any loose ends this time."

Seated beside the patriarch, Mytho said nothing, but his beige colored brows furrowed as the car window slid closed again.

* * *

Duck was unsure of where she was headed; she only knew that her legs had to keep running. The city streets, the people, the cars – all of them whizzed past her like a surreal, disjointed film.

After what seemed like an eternity, she somehow found herself in front of the Stein Jewelry Store.

As Edel stood outside the door, locking up the store for the evening, Duck stumbled toward her and collapsed at the jeweler's feet. Edel gently lifted the red haired girl back onto her feet. "Duck, what's wrong?"

A rare expression of shock appeared on the woman's face when she saw the profuse tears streaming down Duck's flushed face. Duck wrapped her arms tightly around Edel's waist, sobbing uncontrollably.

"F-Fakir! Oh, Miss Edel…th-they got Fakir!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"…this thing of ours" is one way the Mafia refers to itself. The real name of the Sicilian mafia is "Cosa Nostra", literately "Our Thing". It wasn't until the 1960's that this became known publicly. Some of you might know the name as "La Cosa Nostra", but in fact the article "La" was added by the FBI; the Italian mafia does not employ the article.
> 
> *The Feast of (the) Epiphany is a Christian holiday celebrated on January 6th in the Western Gregorian calendar. It commemorates the day when the Three Magi visited the infant Jesus and thus Jesus as the Son of God was revealed to mankind. The holiday isn't as well-known or celebrated in the US as it is in other places (i.e. Europe for example), but I'd expect someone raised in a church-ran orphanage, such as Mytho in this case, to be familiar with the occasion. Credit Google Translate for the Greek; I only hope it was at least grammatically correct.
> 
> *Father Muller is named after George Muller, the 19th century founder of the Ashley Down orphanage in Bristol, England. He was well-known for the high standard of education he provided to his charges.
> 
> Once again, thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	14. Chapter 14

The first rays of the sun dawned on a gray hazy morning in Manhattan as Mytho appeared at the entrance of the Corvo residence. Behind him the Gray Ghost silently pulled away from the curb as he was admitted into the building. The butler escorted him down halls covered in rich, crimson wallpaper, walls decorated with paintings in antique gold frames. Occasionally there was a marble bust or statue, their hollow pupils gazing unseeingly into nowhere as the two men walked past.

Mytho was led to a large set of double doors where the butler took his leave. The young man gave two soft raps on the hardwood and a low, gruff voice answered, "Come in."

Inside the room, Don Corvo sat in a high-back leather armchair beside the window, his figure wrapped in a deep purple dressing grown. The heavy curtains were drawn and only a needle-thin ray of light penetrated the room. The Don cradled a wine glass in his hands, a dusty bottle sitting on the table beside him. As Mytho walked into the room, he saw that the yellowed label on the bottle was none other then the Don's prized 1891 Brunello di Montalcino.

"What gave you the urge to indulge this morning, Father?"

The old man scoffed. "This is not an indulgence, Mytho. After last night's debacle I needed something to soothe my nerves, and this rich wine never fails to calm me and help me think." The Don brought the glass to his lips and paused to breathe in its aroma.

Mytho watched as the Don tipped the glass and drained his cup before he said, "Have you decided what you will do with them?"

"There are fools everywhere, nowadays," the Don gestured his hand in the air in disgust. "Back in my day, people knew their places and respected authority. _Real_ authority. But now, every damn young idiot thinks he can take on the world. I think," here the Don paused and slowly pushed himself up from his chair, "that it's time we showed all the fools in this city the consequences of meddling with the business of Domenico Corvo."

The Don walked to a polished wooden cabinet and pulled out a ring of keys from an inner pocket of his robe. With one of those keys he opened a drawer and took out an object wrapped carefully in a piece of faded red silk. Don Corvo unwrapped the silk to reveal a stiletto knife, sheathed in a case of leather that appeared even older than the silk wrapping.

As he made his way back to Mytho, the Don unsheathed the knife, and laid it across his palm. The blade of the knife was no wider than a man's thumb, but it narrowed to a fine point until it was needle sharp. The handle of the knife resembled a perched raven sitting atop the short curved guard of the blade, the only decoration on the cold and deadly weapon.

Mytho's eyes remained fixed on the object, and he must have betrayed his surprise for the Don smirked knowingly as he held the knife in front of Mytho. "The gun is a useful tool, Mytho, but even an idiot can shoot a gun. A knife on the other hand, requires skill and precision, and most importantly, it requires conviction."

The Don took Mytho's hand and placed the stiletto in his protégé's palm. He placed his other hand over the knife and hooded red eyes locked with Mytho's golden eyes. "This knife has been in the family for generations, and within every generation it has been put to use for dispatching our enemies," Don Corvo said in a soft yet deathly still voice. "By learning how to obey, you will learn how to command. * You will inherit my place some day, Mytho. And in order to do, so you must be prepared to destroy any threat to the family yourself, _with your own hands_. Do you understand?"

Mytho narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the sliver of cold steel and the withered hand of the Don clasping his palm. Shutting his eyes, he raised the Don's hand, and the knife, to his lips.

* * *

The first thing Fakir was aware of as his mind returned to consciousness was the sound of water dripping steadily nearby. As the rhythmic noise became louder and clearer Fakir felt a dull, aching sensation on the back of his head, as if something very hard had crashed into his skull…

Fakir's eyes snapped open and he woke violently with a start. The sudden movement made his vision dance about like that of someone who'd drank too much hooch. He let out a deep groan and squeezed his eyelids shut.

It took him several moments before he was able to open them again without feeling nauseous, and several more minutes passed before he was able to put disjointed thoughts together to recall what had happened.

There was Duck, Fakir recollected, and two men. They were trying to abduct her but he managed to stop them, and Duck got away. After that, his memories were vague, but Fakir was fairly certain one of the men had struck him with a hard object, after which something sweet and cloying was pressed into his face. Then, nothingness.

By then the colors and shapes in front of him had stopped spinning, and Fakir tried to stand to get a better bearing on his surroundings. However he quickly realized he could not move at all. His arms were drawn up above his head, wrists tied together by chains around a steel support beam that rose up from the floor behind him. He sat kneeling on the cold concrete, his feet bound together by a second length of chains. Fakir tried to wiggle his wrists free, but the chains were tightly secured. He hadn't felt the strain in his arms at first because of the lingering effects of the chloroform, but now his muscles burned and even small motions sent jolts of pain down his limbs.

"Damn," Fakir cursed. He could feel his heart begun to beat faster, his breaths quickening as fear and panic began to bubble up in the back of his mind. Trying to stave off the instinctual desire to fight or run, Fakir closed his eyes and commanded himself to take several long breaths in an effort to calm himself.

 _Panicking will not help you_ , he told himself. _Think! Use your head: what can you do to try to get out of this situation?_ Even if he could not escape his bonds, Fakir reasoned he could still look for ways to escape when he got the chance. If he could discern where he was, then he might have a chance, however slim, of alerting the precinct so he could be rescued. With that thought, Fakir opened his eyes again and studied the room in which he was held captive.

Overhead a maze of pipes ran across the ceiling and the damp air smelt of mildew. There were no windows in the dim basement and the only light came from two dusty light bulbs, one hanging from the center of the ceiling and a second over the whitewashed door across from him, positioned at the top of a set of wooden stairs. Several piles of wooden crates were stacked around the room. Looking at the one closest to him, Fakir could just make out the top of a label "La Fragante Rosa" but the words below had been smudged, as a leaky pipe overhead had soaked the side of the crate facing him and caused the ink to run on the damp paper.

Fakir could tell all of the boxes shared the same label and design, but still they gave him no information about his whereabouts. Hoping there might be some other route of escape in the room, Fakir turned toward a corner when he caught sight of a familiar figure slumped in a chair.

"Autor!" Fakir jerked against his restraints and was rewarded with a fresh jolt of pain down his arms.

The journalist was unconscious, with his head slumped forward and his mouth gagged by a rag. Fakir relaxed a fraction when he saw Autor's chest rise and fall. Still, whoever brought him here hadn't bothered to be gentle. His glasses were missing and there was a tear in his suit. What was most chilling, however, was the fact that the chair's legs were set in blocks of concrete. Fakir had all too clear of an idea what the Corvos planned to do to the reporter; if they didn't find a way to escape soon, both of them would find themselves at the bottom of the Hudson River.

"Autor! Wake up! Hey!" Fakir called out, trying to keep his voice low lest there was a guard posted outside. Fakir waited tensely, and after a few seconds Autor began to stir. Trying again, Fakir urged him, "Wake up! Autor!"

Autor's eyes blinked and he let out a muffled moan. He looked toward Fakir's voice, looking dazed and confused. But it quickly changed to panic when he realized he was bound and gagged.

"MMMMM!"

To Fakir's dismay, Autor started screaming. With the gag in his mouth Autor's voice was muffled, but he started thrashing around in a desperate attempt to free himself, causing the concrete blocks on the chair to scrape noisily against the floor.

"Autor, stop it! They'll hear you!" Fakir whispered hurriedly, but even as the words left his mouth he could hear the sound of footsteps approaching from outside.

Cursing under his breath, Fakir implored, "Autor, stop! They're coming! Damn it, _stop!_ "

The door to the cellar swung open and two men dressed in dark suits appeared. One of them was smoking a cigarette, while the other had a square of dressing on the side of his face, and Fakir recognized them as the same men who had attacked Duck. The angle of the stairs partially concealed Fakir so that the two men did not notice him upon entering, and instead they made their way towards Autor.

"Now, what is that ruckus I hear? What's that noise sound like to you, Frankie?" joked the man with the cigarette to his companion as they stopped in front of Autor.

The man with the injured cheek sneered and leaned in close to the terrified reporter whose screams had dwindled into a pathetic whimper at the sight of the mobsters. "It sounds to me like a squealin' pig."

As Frankie leaned in, he breathed down Autor's face and whispered, "And ya know what we do with pigs?" He traced a line down Autor's ear with a finger, "we cut off their ears," he tapped Autor's nose, "chop off their noses," and made a motion of drawing with his thumb down Autor's chest, "and then we gut 'em!"

By now Autor was shaking uncontrollably and the two mobsters tossed their heads back, guffawing. But their laughter was cut short when a voice shouted out, "Hey!" The mobsters' heads snapped around at the source of the voice and saw Fakir, straining against the chains around his arms, glaring at them. "Pick on someone your own size, you bastards!"

Frankie pulled away from the hyperventilating Autor and laughed, his dark eyes meeting the detective's glare. "Hey Paul, looks like the copper's awake," Frankie said to his partner as they made their way over to stand beside Fakir.

Towering over the restrained detective, Frankie stared down at the defiant dark haired man. "Even though he's all tied up, the copper thinks he can still order us around, eh?"

Without warning, Frankie kicked Fakir hard in the gut, sending the detective crashing into the steel beam that bound him.

" _That_ was for yesterday!" Frankie grinned cruelly, running his thumb across the dressing on his cheek. To the side, the now forgotten Autor shuddered from the horrible retching sound as Fakir coughed violently.

Before Fakir could recover, the brutish mobster struck Fakir across the face with his fist. As Fakir coughed and groaned from the blows, Frankie cracked his knuckles, "and _this_ is for trying to give us orders!"

" _No one_ gives _us_ orders around here, and definitely not a chained-up dog like you!" Paul took the cigarette from his mouth and smirked sadistically. "Maybe I ought'a teach you a little lesson."

Paul exchanged a goading look with his partner, and Frankie nodded as the cruel smile on his face widened. The man with the wounded face reached down, grabbed a fist full of Fakir's hair and yanked his head back.

A trickle of blood ran down the edge of Fakir's lips as he struggled against Frankie's grip. But between the chains around his hands and the mobster's vice-like grip, he could do little but watch with rasping breaths as, with relish, Paul slowly brought the burning tip of the cigarette toward Fakir's exposed neck.

"What are you two doing?"

The two mobsters' heads whipped around. The cigarette in Paul's hand dropped onto the bare concrete floor as four pairs of eyes turned to see Mytho standing at the top of the stairs, his eyes overshadowed by the brim of his white fedora.

* * *

The 53rd precinct was in a state of frenzy. The news that a young woman had been attacked and that mobsters had kidnapped a police detective had spread like wildfire. A slew of reporters and photographers jammed the entrance to the precinct, snapping pictures and pushing to speak with anyone who ventured into or out of the building. Inside the precinct, phones were ringing almost constantly, and police officers rushed about the building with great urgency in efforts to locate the kidnapped detective.

Duck sat in Charon's office, insulated from the exterior's whirlwind of movement. She looked out into the gray morning beyond the captain's dusty office window, her usually bright blue eyes red and puffy. She had first been in the same office not too many months ago, when on that fateful night she had first met Fakir. Duck sniffed and rubbed her nose absently with her hand, hugging closer the blanket that was wrapped around her.

After narrowly escaping the mobsters and stumbling into Edel on the street, she had tried to explain to the jewelry shop owner what had happened, though her words had been so frequently interrupted by sobs that she was almost unintelligible. Yet Edel had seemed to grasp the situation quickly, and after leading Duck into her shop, had called the police.

Duck couldn't recall what exactly had happened in the last twelve plus hours, save for hazy memories of being whisked away by a police car and meeting the captain here in the precinct. The interview with the captain along with other police officials she did not know felt as if it had went on for hours, though according to the clock it probably hadn't taken more than half an hour. It ended when Charon had glanced back up at Duck, studied her, and then had abruptly concluded the interview and called for a blanket to be brought in for her.

"You should rest a little, Miss Stannus. I will come check on you in a few hours. If you need anything please let Malen know," he had said, resting his hand on her shoulders. "We will find Fakir. I promise you."

It was only after the captain had left the office and when Malen had come in with a blanket that Duck realized she was shivering, and wordlessly allowed the bespectacled secretary to gently drape the blanket over her shoulders.

The clock on the wall ticked rhythmically, numbingly, as hours passed and Charon still did not return. Duck sat there, eyes half closed. She wasn't sure if she actually fell asleep at any point during the night, but whenever she closed her eyes, she would see Fakir's face as he was shouting at her to escape.

" _RUN!"_

And she had run. Run as fast as her legs could carry her from danger. But Fakir…

Duck squeezed her eyes shut. Her mental image resurfaced of an anonymous man crumpled in a bloody heap in a dark alley, but this time the man had been replaced by Fakir, the noise of machine guns filling her ears.

The door clicked and Duck's eyes flitted open to see Charon entering the office. The captain's shirt collar was wrinkled and his stiff movements showed his fatigue. Duck stood from her chair, the blanket falling from her shoulders as she asked urgently, "Have you found him? Did you find Fakir?"

Charon sighed and shook his head. He sank down into the worn leather chair behind his desk. "We've exhausted all of our contacts in the neighborhood and various other boroughs, but not one useful tip has surfaced. Either no one knows, or those that do are just too scared to say anything. And what's worse, it seems a journalist named Autor Brahms who's been investigating the Corvos has gone missing as well." He sighed. "I believe the attack on you, Fakir, and Mr. Brahms is no coincidence. It looks like the Corvos have finally decided to take action against those they deem to be a threat to their operations."

"But…but I'm the witness they want!" Duck pressed her hand to her chest. "Why would they take Fakir?!"

"Fakir is the lead investigator on the Corvo case, Miss Stannus. With him gone, our case against them would suffer a severe setback," Charon grimaced. "Between him, yourself, and the reporter, the knowledge that the three of you possess combined would create a powerful case against them. It's something the mob would not tolerate."

"So you mean, they'll…" Duck tasted bile rising at the back of her throat and her face grew pale.

Charon gently touched her hand from across the table. "I merely wanted to update you on the current situation. We must hold onto the hope that Fakir will be found." _Hopefully alive and sound_ , the captain prayed silently.

"Isn't there anything, anything at all that I can do to help?" Duck asked earnestly.

Charon stood up from his seat and smiled sadly at the young woman across from him. "The Corvos will still be on the look out for you, Miss Stannus. You will be safe for now here in the precinct, but you can't stay here forever. I've already contacted the Marshals Service and they've agreed to set up a temporary safe house for you before a permanent one is established."

When Duck frowned in confusion, Charon continued, "You will be given a new identity and placed somewhere where the mob won't find you. It will take a while to work all the details out, but you will be safe. "*

"But I would be running away! I can't do that, not when Fakir's still missing!" Duck shouted, unable to believe that the captain was suggesting for her to abandon Fakir just so she could run off and hide.

"Please understand. I know Fakir would've wanted to see you safe as well."

Duck sat back down, defeated by those words. It's true, she thought. If Fakir were here, she knew he'd be yelling and bullying her to be placed into protective custody. All because he, more than anyone else, wanted to protect her.

Tears dripped from Duck's eyes onto her clenched fists, slipping down onto her lap. No matter how annoying, aggravating, or rude Fakir had been, he'd always been looking out for her safety. And now he was gone, because he had protected her. A sob escaped Duck's throat as her tears fell freely.

"Jerk...Why do you always…have to try to protect me?" Duck cried, hiccupping between her words, even as she knew the answer. "I'm…I'm just a shop girl, who can't dance…who's always late for work. Wh-why did you have to…to put your life on the line…f-for me?"

It was just like the day her mother had died. She could only watch helplessly as the deathly ill Elsa took her last struggling breath. Like then, the weight of her helplessness was so unbearable that Duck felt as though her heart would be crushed by it.

Charon watched with deep pity as Duck's tears streamed down, staining her cheeks. He felt horribly guilty for making her cry and for using the girl's concern for Fakir to compel her. However, with two missing people and a precinct in chaos, Charon had to ensure that Duck did what they needed her to do to keep her safe.

Walking up to Duck, Charon wanted to offer her a handkerchief but found his own pockets empty. Seeing a napkin sticking out from Duck's forgotten purse that sat in the chair beside her, he bent over, pulled out the napkin, and handed it to Duck, who reached out to grab it.

As Duck brought the napkin to her face, her tear-blurred eyes could make out a few rows of dark letters. She wiped her face on her sleeve and blinked at the crumbled paper.

_You can reach me by these numbers._

_Rue_

Below were three rows of telephone numbers, with one denoted "Home", the second one "Father's place", and the third "Agent".

A sudden thought struck Duck. Turning sharply to a very surprised Charon, Duck pleaded to him, the tears on her face not yet dried, "Captain, please let me use your telephone! There's someone I have to call!"

* * *

"Boss!" Paul's lips twitched twice before he hurriedly plastered a smile on his face as Mytho descended the stairs, "You sure surprised us there! Didn't think you'd be back so soon. We thought we'd soften him up for ya while you were gone, ya see—!"

Before Paul could finish his sentence he found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but did I hear you say you two don't take orders from anyone?" Mytho said placidly, which made Paul turn pale.

"Th-that's not we meant, boss. We'll only listen to you, and the Don of course, y-you know that—" Frankie stammered, but in a flash, found himself looking down the barrel of a second gun.

"Is that so?" Mytho looked down on the brutish mobster, who gulped visibly as Mytho fixed him with a dangerous glare and slowly, deliberately moved the second gun until the tip of the cold, steel barrel touched Frankie's now sweat-stained forehead. "I don't recall myself or Father giving orders for _this_."

Mytho looked at Fakir and the roughed-up state the detective was in. The two thugs seemed to get the message, and Frankie hurriedly let go of Fakir, who collapsed against the metal beam, gasping for breath.

Mytho lifted the guns up and the moment the barrel retreated from their heads the two lackeys scrambled away, uttering apologies as they retreated up the stairs and left their master alone with the two captives. Wordlessly Mytho placed the twin guns back into the shoulder holster that he wore underneath his coat. As the door to the cellar closed and the sound of two rapidly retreating footsteps faded away, Mytho finally turned back to Fakir.

Taking off his hat, the white haired man knelt down beside his old friend and fished out a handkerchief from a pocket. Fakir jerked away sharply when Mytho dabbed the blood from his lips. Warily, Fakir looked up and the two men's eyes met.

"I'm sorry," Mytho said quietly as he folded the handkerchief and tucked it away, "this was not how I planned for us to meet again."

Fakir said nothing, but looked away, bitterness and anger displayed plainly on his face underneath the swollen cheek and bruises. "Never in a million years would _I_ have expected to be talking to you like this, either," Fakir said thickly, his mouth dry and voice hoarse.

"Yes," Mytho stood back up and sat down on a crate facing Fakir, "it's been a long and winding journey for me."

Resting his hands on either side of him, Mytho smiled a little, and Fakir was struck by that familiar, boyish look he'd seen so often many years ago. "You asked me the last time we met, how is it that I have become who I am today?" Mytho's smile widened, almost wistfully. "I suppose now would be a good time to tell you that story."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *An Italian proverb
> 
> *What Charon is proposing to Duck is to place her into witness protection. However the modern Witness Protection Program that we know wasn't established until 1970 so I'm going to be taking some artistic license with this down the road.
> 
> The part where Fakir gets roughed up was, to be honest, a scene I've had in my head since I first started planning this story. I hope that doesn't make me a sadist. :p
> 
> Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!


	15. Chapter 15

The chains around Fakir's hands rattled around as he tried to rest his back against the metal beam to which he was fettered. His knees were sore from being forced into a kneeling position for so long, but he stubbornly ignored the aches and kept his focus on the white haired capo before him.

Mytho reached into his coat with his left hand and took out one of his guns. To the side Autor let out an uneasy moan at the sight of the weapon. Mytho smiled at him. "I would have preferred to keep this conversation private, but I don't suppose I mind an audience. For now."

Turning back to Fakir, the pale haired mobster ran his fingers along the gun. "Do you remember, when you first started going to school, what it was that you taught me?"

Fakir frowned. The beating he'd received earlier had dazed him, and it took him a moment before he recollected. "You mean, when we were throwing stones at cans?"

Mytho nodded with a satisfied smile. "You wanted to make sure I could defend myself against anyone who might try to bully me when you weren't around. I remember after about a week of practice I started to get pretty good at it, but you insisted we hold a contest just to be sure I had it down."

Fakir remembered that, all right. They'd set up a row of eight cans on a fence and whoever hit the most won. Fakir managed to knock down six, but Mytho took down all eight on the first try. It was the first time the young dancer had beaten Fakir at anything, and at a skill Fakir had been proud of no less. Even now Fakir's ego still felt a tingle of indignation at this memory.

Pushing the recollection aside, Fakir asked, "But what does that have to do with—"

"With this?" Mytho held up the gun. He tucked the gun back into its holster and took out a long object wrapped in faded crimson silk. Fakir's eyes narrowed when Mytho unwrapped it to reveal a thin stiletto knife with a handle the shape of a metal raven.

Mytho turned the stiletto over in his hand, examining it. "After I came to New York, I studied at the Crown Dance Studio to learn ballet, just like I said I would. But the money Father Muller left me ran out after two years, and unable to find work to pay for my lessons, I was forced to leave the studio." He paused. "At that time, I met Rue, who offered me a job working for her father. You could say that it all started with the good aim you had instilled in me."

Mytho held up the knife up by the smooth metal handle, his fingers curving over it as though it was a dart. Aiming his hand straight at Fakir, he made a sharp flicking motion with his wrist.

_Thunk!_

The dart landed in the center of the impromptu dartboard, and the crowd inside the speakeasy burst into cheers. This particular speakeasy was in a noisy cellar hidden beneath a dried goods store. It was a cool Saturday night and there were roughly twenty people packed into the small room, a good two-thirds of them with cups of home-brewed bathtub gin in their hands.

Mytho stood at the center of this raucous crowd, which roared again when he threw a second dart into the board less than an inch away from where the previous dart had landed.

Mytho smiled shyly as the men patted him heartily on the back, their faces flushed from alcohol, his from the praise they showered upon him. As the boisterous crowd returned to their glasses, Mytho picked up the newsboy cap he'd left on the bar counter, now filled with coins and even a silver dollar or two. Tucking his earnings from the dart game into his pocket, Mytho wondered when the act of visiting a speakeasy had become such a normal activity for him.

When he had first started working for Rue's father, Mytho had been ill at ease with being involved in the illicit alcohol trade. As a distributor—Mytho could not quite bear to call himself a bootlegger—he had grown nervous every time he passed a police officer. But as the months went by and his internal guilt went unnoticed, Mytho became complacent and could now drive past a copper with a practiced smile on his face.

Alcohol also factored greatly into Mytho's life outside of work. While he was never particularly fond of drinking himself, his coworkers in the trade had a strong habit of visiting the neighborhood speakeasies after a hard day's work and would often persuade him to join them. Granted, none of the hole-in-the-wall bars these working class men frequented could compare with the posh, glamorous clubs that Rue preferred, of which he had already visited on a few occasion with her. Nonetheless, Mytho enjoyed the companionship of these men. Even though this was not the stage he'd longed for and had trained so hard for, he still felt genuine enjoyment in entertaining the crowd with a few games of darts.

While everyone else returned to the affair of getting inebriated, Mytho was preparing to leave when a hand from behind seized his shoulder.

Looking back, Mytho recognized the man immediately, gasping in surprise. "Mr. Taccola! What are you doing here?"

Taccola was a tall fellow wearing a sharp tan-colored coat, which Mytho estimated was worth the collective weekly wage of everyone else crammed inside the room. The man cast a distasteful look at the people crowded around him before saying tersely to Mytho, "There's a job for you."

Mytho looked at him with confusion. Taccola was, strictly speaking, his superior and the one who gave the actual orders for delivery; Mytho himself had few personal interactions with the man. It was rumored that he was close with the Don, which was hardly a surprise, given that Taccola was in charge of all deliveries in the city of New York. What puzzled Mytho was why the man had sought him out in person like this, outside of work hours.

Whatever the reason, Taccolo looked none too pleased about it as he quickly turned to leave and Mytho made haste to follow.

Once they were outside, and Mytho had checked that there was no one around to overhear them, he asked, "Is there something urgent that needs to be delivered?"

"In a way," Taccola said. "The Boss wants something delivered in Brooklyn tomorrow night, and he specifically said he wants you to come along."

"The Boss?" Mytho arched an eyebrow.

Taccola snorted. "Don Corvo, of course! Be at this location tomorrow at the time written," he said, holding out a folded note to Mytho. "And _make sure_ you come alone."

Still confused by this sudden request, Mytho asked, "You said he wanted _me_ for this task?"

Taccola shrugged. "Beats the hell outta me why, but those were his orders exactly. I don't know what he sees in a delivery boy like _you_ , but a wise man doesn't question the Don's decisions." He eyed Mytho condescendingly. "Just be there on time, and don't screw up. I don't want to look bad in front of the Don because of you."

With that, Taccola walked away and turned a corner, disappearing into the night.

The idea that the Don had personally requested a specific task from him had preoccupied Mytho for the rest of the night. Rue was gone for the week, meeting with a director regarding a new movie, so Mytho was left lying in bed, alone with his thoughts.

Though he'd been going steady with Rue for two years now, Mytho had never once met the man who was both his employer and the father of his girlfriend. Rue had once told him that her father was watching out for Mytho in order to find a suitable position for him in the family's business, and Mytho couldn't deny the fact that he had risen steadily through the ranks of the Corvo shipping enterprise in the short time he'd been employed by them.

Nonetheless, the minimal—if not altogether nonexistent—interaction he'd had with Domenico Corvo made Mytho wonder if Rue's father entirely approved of their relationship. He was a no-name dancer who had grown up in a small town orphanage, while she was a budding actress on the verge of stardom. Up to this point, Mytho had all but convinced himself that his promotions were entirely due to Rue's efforts, and not from any genuine interest from her father himself.

Now though, with this strange new request from Don Corvo himself, Mytho wasn't so sure.

The next evening, Mytho headed for the location written on the note. After disembarking from the tram, he'd taken care to make sure no one had followed him and had wound his way through the waterfront until he arrived at a warehouse.

The adjacent street was empty and the only noise came from the boats on the river and rats rustling around in the dustbins. Mytho knocked on the door and was quickly admitted by a stranger.

Inside the warehouse Mytho saw Taccola standing next to a parked Studebaker, a rigid leather briefcase in his hand.* Mytho did not know Taccola well enough to read the man's expression accurately, but from the rapid tapping of his feet and the frown on his face, it seemed like Taccola was deeply anxious.

Besides Taccola and the man who had opened the door for him, there appeared to be no one else in the warehouse, which Mytho found to be very peculiar. Normally on one of Mytho's jobs, there would at least be a few other workers around to help out with the deliveries. There were other boxes lying here and there, but none of them looked as though they would fit inside the car, and neither of the men looked interested in the other crates.

"Is the merchandise in the car already?" Mytho asked.

"Not yet," Taccola said. "Give me your hand."

Surprised, Mytho hesitated.

"Hurry up, we ain't got all day!" Taccola barked.

Not sure where this was headed, Mytho tentatively held out his right arm.

Taccola stepped up to Mytho, and to the young man's shock, took out a pair of handcuffs and cuffed one end to his wrist.

"What are you doing?!" Mytho tried to jerk his hand away, but Taccola caught his wrist and motioned for the other man to help him clasp the other end of the handcuff to the handle of the briefcase.

Once Mytho was attached to the briefcase, Taccola moved away, leaving Mytho holding the container. It was only then that Mytho realized how heavy the briefcase was, pulling his arm down with its weight.

Turning sharply to Taccola, Mytho demanded, "What's this all about? What is in this briefcase?"

" _This_ is the merchandise, and it's your job to keep it safe. That's all you need to know. Oh, but one more thing."

Before Mytho could interrupt, Taccola reached into his coat and pressed something into Mytho's free hand.

It was a revolver.

Mytho's eyes widened as he gasped. He stared at the man who sat across from him. "Why are you giving this to me?"

"Insurance." The man looked away and snorted. "I just hope your aim is half as good with a gun as it is with darts."

The weight of the gun in Mytho's hand felt far heavier than the briefcase chained to his wrist as Taccola ushered him into the car. Wordlessly, they drove off into the night.

With the briefcase on his lap and the revolver tucked into his coat pocket, Mytho remained staring at the simple rectangular box in his possession as they passed by dimly lit streets, heading into the city.

As the minutes passed, the situation Mytho had found himself in morphed the nervous flutter in his stomach into a gut-wrenching dread. Transporting illegal alcohol was one thing, but carrying a deadly weapon was something far more serious. If Taccola had thought the job so dangerous that he would give Mytho a gun for "insurance"…

Mytho gazed down apprehensively again at the briefcase locked to his wrist.

Sitting beside Mytho, Taccola looked out the back window and suddenly let out an oath. He leaned in and muttered something Mytho couldn't make out to the driver. Wondering what was wrong, Mytho glanced behind him and saw a car some discreet distance behind them.

The driver of their car suddenly banked a sharp right turn at the next intersection, and the pursuers sped around the corner after them.

The driver then stepped on the gas and made another sharp turn to shake off the other vehicle, the car's tires screeching against the unevenly paved road before tearing down the empty street.

But the car behind them had a far more powerful motor, and rounded the corner a few seconds later, quickly gaining on them.

_BANG! BANG!_

Mytho ducked down as bullets whizzed past them from the pursuing vehicle, his free arm covering his head. Taccolo took out a gun from his coat and started firing back at their assailants through the passenger-side window.

_CRASH!_

A bullet hit the back window of the car, shattering it and showering the passengers with shards of glass. The car swerved sharply to the left and Mytho was tossed forward when their speeding vehicle struck something hard and came to a sudden halt.

Dazed, Mytho opened his eyes and as his hand came away from his head he saw a patch of something dark and wet splashed across his arm. As his vision refocused he realized what it was: blood. Was it his? Patting his head, he didn't feel any open wounds on himself…

He glanced up and in front of him, inches from his bloodied arm, the driver was slumped over the wheel, a gaping gory hole in the back of his head. Mytho had barely any time to take this in before Taccolo dragged the young man out of the car and pulled him into a nearby alley way.

"Who are these people, and why are they shooting at us?!" Mytho yelled, crouching in fear.

Taccola cursed, pulling out a handful of bullets from a pocket, his fingers fumbling around as he attempted to reload his gun. "They're after the dope! Word must've gotten out that there was going to be a delivery tonight!"

Mytho looked down at the briefcase chained to his wrist. Was that what he was carrying? Drugs? That explained why the briefcase was so heavy, and so dangerous.

A slap knocked Mytho out of his thoughts as Taccolla yelled, "What the hell are you doing?!" Down the street the sound of squealing tires became louder and louder. "Don't just stand there! Shoot 'em, you idiot!"

Clutching the case in his arms, Mytho could feel the weight of the revolver in his pocket, beckoning to him.

 _No, this is wrong!_ Mytho's trembling gaze shifted to the car nearby, and he locked eyes with the now unseeing glazed eyes of the dead driver. _No, no—I don't want this!_

" _No_!"

With a scream, Mytho broke free of Taccolo's hand, running blindly into the dark backstreet of the docks.

Behind him, Taccolo cursed vehemently as he finished loading his own weapon and began shooting back. The cracks of gunfire layered over one another, and Mytho barely registered from behind him a gurgled cry from Taccolo as he dashed down the dark alley.

He felt as though his chest was going to explode from his heart pounding his blood through his veins, but Mytho kept running. Small creatures scurried to get out of his way, their movements startling the panicked young man, tripping and knocking him down onto his knees.

Mytho's head snapped up when he heard the ominous drone of a car motor coming his way. His hands fumbled to push himself back up, when his fingers came upon something cold and smooth.

Mytho glanced down and saw the gun Taccolo had given him resting on the ground in front of him, having fallen out of his pocket during the fall.

With no time to think, Mytho picked up the gun, and continued to run.

Holding the case under one arm, Mytho darted into a small side street just as the headlights of the pursuing vehicle pulled around the corner. Stumbling over himself in his haste, Mytho dodged between boxes and trash heaps, while the car behind him came to a stop, and unable to fit inside the narrow alley, angry voices followed him.

Knowing only that he needed to continue running, Mytho panted when after some fifty yards into the alley, a brick wall loomed in front of him.

Mytho collapsed onto his knees, his eyes wide with terror. Turning around and backing himself into a corner, he clutched the gun with shaking hands as two black silhouettes slowly approached him.

"He's still got the dope with him?" one of the faceless figures asked.

"Sure does. This will be easy pickings, heh!" The second figure laughed and Mytho heard the click of a gun being cocked.

_Am I going to die here?_

The face of the dead driver flashed across Mytho's mind.

_I don't want to die, no! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!_

Mytho's eyes burst open, and his mouth opened to scream. But his cry was eclipsed by the exploding bangs of gunfire, and the world went dark.

When Mytho next opened his eyes, he found himself gazing up at the ceiling of an unfamiliar room. The room was dim, but Mytho thought he could hear the din of the city beyond the ringing in his ears.

Craning his head to the side, Mytho saw that the walls of the room were lined by rows of bookshelves along with an unoccupied desk across from him; a single desk lamp on it provided the only source of illumination in the room. Mytho himself was lying on one of the twin couches, with a low table positioned between them.

His ears still ringing, Mytho rubbed his head and tried to get his bearings. He gingerly pushed himself up from the couch when the door clicked open and a raspy low voice said, "Ah, you're finally awake."

Mytho's head shot toward the voice, and he saw a short, stooped silhouette by the light from the hallway.

"Wh-who's there? What happened? Where…a-am I?" Mytho's unsteady voice asked.

The light vanished as the door closed noiselessly, returning the room to its previous gloomy state. The rhythmic thump of a cane on the carpet echoed in the room as the raspy voice said, "I had intended for the delivery to be a test for you, but it seems the rascals of the White Hand Gang caught wind of the delivery and threw a wrench into my plans."*

In the dim shadows, Mytho could see the figure approaching him. As he came into the light, the silhouette gradually took the form of an old man, his right hand gripping a cane, a hat shading his eyes. Combined with the matching black suit, he seemed to meld with the shadows in the room.

Mytho stroked his head, his skull still aching, and stuttered, "I-I don't understand…a test? For what?"

Mytho's right arm froze when he noticed the weight of the briefcase was absent. He held his hand up and saw that indeed, the briefcase and its handcuffs were gone.

Then, he realized he had been alone in the room until just now, and there was no sign of Taccola anywhere. He had remembered hearing Taccola scream, and Mytho shuddered to think of what could have happened to the man. However, he forced himself to ask, "Is Mr. Taccola alive? What happened to him?"

At that the old man scoffed, and instead he answered Mytho's first question. "I wanted to see whether you had the guts and nerves to handle high-stakes deliveries so that you could take over Taccola's position eventually. He was a competent man, but too proud for his own good, and lately he'd gotten it in his head that he'll be the one inheriting my place." He frowned, shaking his head. "Still, I would've preferred for him to retire in a less obtrusive way. We were fortunate that at least the case was not lost, thanks much in parts to you."

Mytho looked up to the stranger's face and was startled to find himself looking into a pair of penetrating red eyes. Despite the man's age, there was a cold, calculating edge in them that stood in stark contrast to the frail body the eyes inhabited.

Disturbed by what he saw in those eyes and not wanting to dwell on what he had experienced, Mytho looked away and stood unsteadily from his seat. "I'm sorry but I-I need to leave…"

"And where will you go?" the stranger asked pointedly. "You have the blood of two men on your hands now, you know."

At those words Mytho stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned to face the elderly gentleman who took out an object wrapped in a handkerchief. He tossed it toward Mytho, who flinched and recoiled away. The object wrapped inside the handkerchief fell out, and a revolver hit the floor with a dull heavy clunk. The cylinder of the gun swung out, showing that all of the chambers were empty.

The old stranger made his way over to the couch opposite the one Mytho had laid on earlier and took a seat, hands perched on top of his cane. "When we found you in that alley, you had fainted, but this was still in your hand. It was a good thing my men found you before the cops did. There were two dead men in front of you, and six spent casings on the ground." Smirking, the old man chuckled at Mytho. "Not bad for one who had never handled a gun before."

For a long moment Mytho stared unblinkingly at the gun on the floor, his mind unable to comprehend what this stranger had told him. His memories of what had happened in the alley were hazy, but Mytho remembered the coldness of the gun against his palm and the fear he'd felt as the two men approached him, their silhouettes illuminated by a car's headlights.

"I…shot them?" Mytho whispered. He raised his hands and only then did he notice the specks of blood dotted over the front of his clothes. Gripping his shirt, his hands shaking, Mytho wailed, "Oh God…I-I shot them; I _killed_ them!"

The old man stood and walked up to Mytho, his cane tapping on the ground a measured, ruthless rhythm. "We live in a cruel world, Mytho. If you had not killed those men, they would've killed you. Compassion and kindness are foolish illusions. If you do not have the resolve to think and act for yourself, you will be trampled upon and worn down without mercy."

"But—!"

"'But how would I know?' you ask?" the old man said with a sneer. "Oh, I've been through it all, and trust me, _I_ would know."

The stranger took Mytho's elbow and guided him to the couch on which the old man had previously sat. Sitting beside the older man, Mytho gazed into his face and was startled by the deep burgundy eyes that peered back at him with an intensity that belied the man's age. The familiarity of those eyes slowly made the pieces fall into place, and Mytho realized who this old man was.

"You…you're Domenico Corvo, aren't you? You're Rue's father!"

Don Corvo smirked. "I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out." He stood up and slowly made his way to the desk. "I became interested in you after Rue recommended you to me, and I decided to do a little research on you of my own. You were born and raised in Nordlingen, a small town in Pennsylvania at a church orphanage, and came to the city a few years ago to study at a dance school."

The Don paused to unlock a hidden drawer by the desk and took out a bottle of amber-colored whiskey and two crystal tumblers. He opened the bottle and poured two shots of the liquor into the pair of glasses and made his way back to the couch.

"A man's story is important. It tells me where and with whom his loyalties lie. And as for you," he looked at Mytho and set a glass down before him, "you have few ties to your hometown, and besides Rue, you have no close friends here in the city." Don Corvo sat back down and gestured for Mytho to take the glass.

Mytho looked at the liquor hesitantly. Again, the Don seemed to read his mind and gestured to the glasses. "Drink; it will help calm your nerves. Wine is far more sophisticated, but at times like this some 'medicinal' whiskey will do the trick."* He himself took a sip of the amber liquid, and watched as Mytho picked up his own glass and took a tentative sip, then another one less hesitantly.

The warmth afforded by the alcohol gradually eased away the quivering in Mytho's limbs, and after half of his glass was gone, a strange calmness had returned to Mytho's mind and this was when Don Corvo spoke again.

Domenico Corvo twisted the ring on his finger, his eyes not focused on any particular object. "You remind me somewhat of myself when I was young, Mytho. Do you know why?"

"I…no, I don't," Mytho admitted.

The Don glanced at him with a distant expression before peering back down at the ring on his finger. "My mother died when I was young and my father was often absent. The world I lived in was a harsh and unyielding one: a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye. Unconditional love was but a fairy tale—in this world, you were truly on your own. To obtain love and respect, you must have the power and conviction to attain it. You must be ready to fight with tooth and claw to take what it is you want, as I have done all these years.

"With this philosophy, I have come far in the world. But, Time cares not for the achievements of any one man. After observing you these past few months, I have seen the same potential in you. You have what it takes on the inside to be my heir someday, if matured properly." Don Corvo turned toward Mytho. "With Taccola gone, I need another worthy man to work at my side, and you have the brains and the talent to do it."

The Don leaned in and whispered, "Your life has changed tonight, Mytho. Whatever you decide, I won't turn you into the police; snitching is the worst of sins in our line of business. But, you know that you can't go back to that innocent world under the light anymore. What you have done tonight will stay with you forever."

His finger hovered over Mytho's chest, gazing at the receptive young man, the Don's crimson eyes full of temptation. "If you join me, if you let me take you under my wing, you'll become the brightest star shining on our stage of darkness, and all others will bow down before you…"

In the basement where Fakir was held captive, Mytho paused in his recollections as the tip of the stiletto tapped softly against the wood of the crate he sat on. Somewhere above, the water from a leaky pipe dripped with clock-like regularity onto the damp floor.

Fakir was slumped against the beam behind him, his eyes wide, and mouth slightly agape as he stared at his old friend in bewilderment and disbelief. The gentle boy he'd known in childhood had _willingly_ turned into a murderer, a monster. How was this possible?

The words trickled from Fakir's mind to his tongue. His voice came out hoarse and dry. "But…that doesn't make any sense, Mytho," he whispered. "If you joined Domenico Corvo because of what happened to those men, I'm sure if you'd explained the situation to the police—"

"And what do you think they would have believed?" Mytho retorted. "I was the only one who came out of that alley alive that night, Fakir. All the evidence pointed to me. I would have been guilty of all charges. And, even if I had left Father's place that night without agreeing to join him…" His eyes narrowed darkly. "He was right. I would never forget what had happened. What _I_ had done."

"But, that…!" Fakir, even now incredulous at Mytho's admission, struggled to find his words. "That still doesn't explain why you decided to join him! If you were so repulsed by all this, why did you continue to associate with the Corvos? Not just that, to be his _heir?!_ All you're doing is making yourself into what you fear! What you hate!"

To Fakir's surprise, Mytho broke in sharply, "No, you're wrong!"

* * *

Grasping the telephone earpiece in one hand, Duck sat with trepidation, waiting for the connection she had requested to go through.

In her other hand she clenched the transmitter and the napkin tightly in her fingers. Each second felt like hours. Duck glanced down at the napkin with the three rows of telephone numbers Rue had given her.

Duck had completely forgotten about them after Rue had given them to her at the opera gala, too shocked she was about the discovery that Rue was the daughter of Domenico Corvo. It wasn't until the captain had offered the napkin to her to dry her tears that she saw the numbers, and an idea arose in Duck's mind.

It was a gamble, a huge gamble; but with no clues on Fakir's whereabouts, it was a risk she would have to take.

Now, as she sat in Charon's office, the captain and another officer sat nearby, their eyes concentrated on her as they all anxiously waited for a response.

The first number she had dialed was Rue's home on Long Island, but the maid had informed her that Ms. Legnani wasn't home and she wasn't aware of her mistress's whereabouts or when she would return.

Crestfallen, Duck had gone down the list and asked for the operator to connect her to a number in Manhattan, which was supposed to be the residence of her father, Domenico Corvo.

Duck's hand was shaking as she held the brass receiver. She was calling the very people who were trying to kill her. Charon had questioned the wisdom of calling the Corvo residence itself but Duck had been insistent. This was the only thing she could do to try to help locate Fakir. If Fakir was willing to put himself in harm's way to save her, she would do anything, everything in her own power to save him.

The ringing tone was suddenly cut off when a familiar but unmistakably irritable voice asked, "Who is this?"

Duck started, and she brought the transmitter closer to her lips. "Rue, it's me!"

On the other end of the line Rue's eyes widened and the receiver nearly slipped from her hand. She had anticipated the call to be from Mytho, and would never have expected Duck, of all people, to be calling her now.

From sheer instinct Rue pulled the receiver away from her head, and was about to hang up, when she heard Duck's desperately pleading voice.

"Rue, wait! Please don't hang up! _Please_!"

Hesitantly, Rue brought the receiver back to her ear. She glanced toward the door of her room, afraid that her omnipresent father would walk in at any moment. In a hushed, hurried voice, she asked, "Why are you calling me? Are you with the police right now? If you want to talk, send them away."

As Duck covered the transmitter, she looked up at Charon, who seemed to understand immediately. He motioned for the other police officer to exit the room before standing up to take leave himself. He paused beside Duck and said quietly, "You don't have to do this, Miss Stannus."

Duck only gazed up at him and smiled wanly. "I must."

Hearing this, Charon closed his eyes and sighed deeply before giving the young woman a brief nod and exiting the room.

Once the door had closed behind Charon, Duck removed her hand from the transmitter. "Okay, I'm alone now."

Rue took a deep breath, trying to collect herself and calm her nerves. "How did you know where to find me?"

"The telephone numbers you left me; I wasn't sure if I'd actually find you, but I'm glad I have."

Rue's brows drew together. Had Duck forgotten that Rue's own family had attempted to abduct her only hours ago? But the sincerity she heard in Duck's voice was genuine: as an actress Rue could tell.

To make sure Duck understood the position she was in, Rue asked, "Are you insane? What are you trying to do by calling the people who are trying to kill you?"

At such frank statements Duck paused. She gulped, and answered, "I know your family is out looking for me, but you're the only person who can help me, Rue."

"Help you? Why? Do you think I can somehow convince my father to leave you alone? Don't be foolish—"

"No!"

Rue was again surprised, this time by the passionate response from the simple, silly girl she'd thought Duck to be.

"No, it's…not for me, but for Fakir. _Please_ , I'm the one you—no, your father—wants! Fakir has nothing to do with this. Please let him go!"

"And what makes you think I have any power over that?"

"Do you know where he is?"

"…"

At Rue's silence Duck saw a glimmer of hope and she pressed the other girl further. "Please, Rue, I'm _begging_ you. I-I'll do anything!"

On the other end of the telephone line, Rue sat in silence, her hand pensively at her lips as she listened to the other girl's entreaty.

Rue knew if she were to give away where the detective was likely being held, her family would disown her, or worse. Talking to anyone associated with the police was equated with snitching, the one greatest sin anyone in her world could commit.

If only Duck had never been a witness, then this whole mess could have been avoided. Because of her, Rue's relationship with her father was now precariously rocky and Mytho had become even more distant.

If only Duck could disappear…

Rue brought the receiver close to her mouth and walked to a window far from the door, where she was least likely to be overheard. "Anything, you say?"

After a split second of hesitation Duck nodded, answering firmly, "Yes. _Anything!_ "

Rue took a deep breath. She knew that what she was about to say next could very well come at the cost of her father's love for her, precious and tenuous as it was; in order for her gambit to work, she would have to confess to her father that she had held Corvo dealings behind his back—again.

But powerlessness bred desperation, and it was with a desperate hope that her impudent action would ultimately bring calm back to her family that Rue answered Duck's plea, her red eyes darkening. "Fine, then. I'll tell you where the detective is. But, only under one condition…"

* * *

Mytho peered up at the ceiling lamp, its weak light barely reaching the young mobster's amber eyes.

"Fakir, answer me this," Mytho said finally, his eyes still gazing upwards, "do you know why I loved to dance so much?"

Still stunned from Mytho's outburst moments before, the sudden change in topic threw off Fakir. To him, Mytho's name and the word dance were synonymous, so for Mytho to ask this question was like asking why the grass was green or why clouds were white.

 _Mytho must've told me the reason at one point_ … Fakir wracked his memories for such an exchange, but none existed. Uncertainly, he answered, "Because…you love it."

Mytho looked back down from the lamp. "Yes, 'love'. From the beginning, I had always wondered why it was that my mother abandoned me. Was I not worthy of her love? Was there something about me that was undeserving of it?" He scowled, his eyes narrowing. "People think young children cannot comprehend feelings like guilt or rejection, but you and I know otherwise, because neither of us was foreign to these feelings when we were young, were we?"

Those words seemed to register something in Fakir, and he looked away, his eyes disquieted.

Mytho looked at him knowingly before continuing, "A few years before I first met you, the ballet school in town put on a recital. It was the highlight of the town's events; everyone attended, even the unwanted orphans at St. Vitus."

In Mytho's mind, a younger version of himself sat in the front row next to the stage, the other adults crowding around and behind. Before him, clad in satin toe shoes and sparkling costumes, the dancers moved in elegant form across the stage.

He'd watched with wide eyes, and when the music closed with a crescendo, the crowd around him burst out in applause and cheers. His young eyes were fixated on the smiling dancers, beaming as they took in the adulation of their audience.

"It was the most beautiful, amazing thing I'd ever seen. So then, I wondered: What would it be like to feel like that, to be adored by so many? If I could dance like the people on stage, then would I too, be loved by everyone?" Mytho closed his eyes, as if lost in the memory. "I wanted to find out if that was true, and from then on, all I could think of was how I could dance like them. I said to myself that one day, I will become a dancer, and for all those years I never shied away from that goal."

Eyes still closed, he smiled wistfully. "Once, when I was on the path towards that dream, there was a time when I truly felt that warmth, when someone truly cared for me, when I thought I truly belonged. During that time, what I'd always dreamed of had finally become real, and I could hold it with my own hands."

Then, his eyes opened, and they were hard and cold. "But after what happened that night, I knew I could never return to the stage under the light. If I continued to work for Father, did his bidding, then tainted though I am, I would be surrounded by people who would show me adoration and love."

Mytho held up his hands demonstratively, displaying the stiletto knife in his palm. "I've already stepped into the darkness; my hands are forever stained with the blood of those two men, and now many others. Even if I had returned to the world of light, I would have been turned away by that very world I had once lived in.

"There is promise for me in the darkness, Fakir," Mytho smiled, a smile of an innocent bright-eyed child. Seeing it sent shudders down Fakir's spine. "And with it, I could have anything I've ever wanted. Everything that I never before had."

Unable to contain himself, Fakir strained against his bonds as he spoke with desperation. "But, at what cost?! What you have now is built on the blood and tears of other people! Innocent families!" Fakir's teeth clenched, and his eyes became moist. "Mothers, and fathers, and children, Mytho! This _can't_ be what you want!"

A shadow flashed over Mytho's eyes, as though the words had struck a nerve. With a frigid edge in his voice, Mytho retorted, "How _would_ you know what I want, Fakir? You, who grew up surrounded by love, by a family who cared for you whether you pleased them or not, and whose mother and father died _protecting_ you—how could _you_ know how _I_ feel and what _I_ want?"

The sting from hearing such words from the man whose friendship he had so cherished made Fakir recoil with shock. His voice came out shaking, growing in conviction, "I…I can't believe it. I _won't_ believe it. Mytho, you were my best friend. I _knew_ you. You were a gentle soul. You don't belong here! This isn't who you are! You're not one of the Corvos, Mytho!" He took a breath and shouted, "You are _not_ a coldblooded murderer!"

Mytho's voice became deathly quiet.

"You don't know me anymore, Fakir. I am one of them now. And if you can't believe what I say…"

He deftly gripped the knife in his hand. "Then I'll simply have to show you."

Mytho raised the knife, his eyes icily still, and the narrow blade flashed in the dim light for a second before he drove it deeply into Fakir's shackled hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taccola is Italian for "jackdaw", a type of bird commonly found in Europe and is a member of the corvus genus, the same genus that crows and ravens belong to.
> 
> * Probably better known for their 1950's bullet-nose cars, the Studebaker was a more discreet vehicle than say a flashy Lincoln or Chrysler. If you're a drug trafficker it's probably not a good idea to draw attention to yourself by hauling your goods around in an eye-catching car, no matter what era you're in.
> 
> * The White Hand Gang was an Irish gang in the Red Hook waterfront area of Brooklyn. Red Hook, which is on the Erie Canal, was one of the busiest freight ports in the world in the 1920s and the gang made a living extorting money from dockworkers and people living in the area. Supposedly the gang wasn't involved in smuggling, though it was said some members felt they should get into the business since it was profitable. Thus I can see some rogue members trying to ambush the Don's deliveries to get their hands on that drug money.
> 
> * Yes, the sale of alcohol during Prohibition was illegal, but it was legal up until 1933 to get alcohol, including whiskey, with a prescription at a licensed pharmacy. The supposed medical benefits of "medicinal liquor" varied, with some for example, claiming to treat rheumatism, while others had more "grounded" claims, such as for nervousness.
> 
> And as always, big thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for editing!


	16. Chapter 16

For a moment Fakir could not comprehend what had just happened, until a searing pain in his hand forced a scream out of him.

Mytho pulled the stiletto knife out, crimson rivulets running down the blade, dripping onto the concrete floor. Blood spilled from the gash in Fakir's right palm, staining the metal chain and his white shirt cuff as it crept down his wrist.

"M-Mytho, you…!" Fakir choked out. His eyes squinted shut. Breathing heavily, he gritted his teeth to keep from bursting out further.

"You didn't believe me before, Fakir," Mytho said with a quaver in his voice. "Do you believe me now? What I am, who I've become?"

Suddenly the door was flung open with a loud bang. Paul's panicked voice called out, "Boss, we have to go! We've been found! The cops are coming!"

Mytho turned away from Fakir and the capo asked urgently, "Has everything been moved out already?"

Paul nodded. "It's all done, boss."

"Good." Mytho swabbed the knife with his handkerchief and swiftly wrapped it back into its silk sleeve. "Have Frankie get the car. How much time do we have?"

Fakir listened to their exchange with difficulty, his mind jumbled by the assailing pain. Something warm pressed against the side of Fakir's face and when he managed to crack his eyes open, Mytho's hand was placed on his cheek.

"Now that our positions are clear, this is good bye, Fakir." Mytho tipped Fakir's chin up and looked into the detective's heavily lidded eyes with his own impassive ones. "At least, for now."

With those parting words Mytho's hand drew away, and Fakir's head sagged back down. He heard Mytho's footsteps as the capo ascended the creaky wooden stairs, followed by the distant slams of doors being shut.

Fakir wasn't sure how long it was before he heard noises again above the basement. When a great _BANG!_ came from the room above the stairs, Fakir raised his head with effort and opened his weary eyes a fraction. The door shuddered as people outside tried to break into the room, and after a second attempt, with another loud _BANG!_ the wooden panel gave way .

A cascade of people rushed down the stairs into the room, voices spilling through, flashlights beaming, guns at the ready.

"Place two men at the door; make sure no one leaves this building!" Charon yelled, holding his pistol in one hand.

Then he looked at the detective. "Fakir?"

The captain put away his gun and knelt down before the fettered young man, while the other officers secured the room and attended to Autor. Gingerly, the older man placed a hand on Fakir's shoulder, and though Fakir's bleary vision could hardly see through the dim light, he easily caught the horrified look on Charon's face before the captain turned around sharply and shouted, "Wilson, call an ambulance! And find a bolt cutter, hurry!"

Turning back to Fakir, Charon said reassuringly, "Fakir, we'll get you out of here soon. You'll be alright, son."

Fakir nodded weakly. The rush of adrenaline that had helped him endure the pain was wearing off fast, and he was beginning to feel every excruciating throb of pain in his hand, as well as those of the injuries inflicted elsewhere on his body.

He was vaguely aware of someone cutting him loose and being carried up out of the basement, a rush of frigid air brushing against his skin. Muffled voices and shifting figures eventually gave way as he slipped into unconsciousness.

For how long his mind drifted in and out of awareness, Fakir could not say. He caught snatches of conversations, but none of them registered. The first sensation he could discern was the smell of chlorine and disinfectants. The scent brought back memories of a little boy in a hospital bed, his back burned raw and blistered from lye, his pillowcases soaked with tears as he wept in the night for parents who could no longer comfort him.

He pushed away at the recollection to keep from drowning in his nightmare of memories, towards the surface of his consciousness. Fakir forced open his heavy eyes and was greeted with what looked like an endless expanse of white.

Slowly, as his vision focused, he could make out the outlines of ceiling tiles above his head. Fakir turned his head a little to the side, and the expanse of the white hospital room was interrupted by a familiar figure with brunette hair and hands clutched together with worry.

"Ra…chel?"

Rachel let out a relieved breath, and smiled at her cousin. "Fakir, you're finally awake. Wait, let me get some water for you first." She rose from her seat beside his bed and disappeared behind the white curtains.

Fakir slowly turned his attention to his body, most of which was concealed beneath the white hospital sheets. His limbs felt leaden and his mind felt sluggish, and it took a great deal of effort to concentrate on anything. _How much morphine did the white coats give me?_ Fakir grimaced mentally.

Willing his muscles to respond, Fakir found he could shift around his torso and legs, but any motion in the fingers of his right hand sent painful twinges up his arm.

Rachel soon returned with a nurse and a tall glass of water in hand. The nurse helped Fakir adjust the bed so he could sit up. After making sure he was settled, the nurse informed them that she would let the doctor know the patient was awake, then took her leave.

Moving her chair closer to the edge of the bed, Rachel held the glass up for Fakir. When he tried lifting his right hand to take the glass from her, a sharp sting of pain shot up his arm, making Fakir wince and grit his teeth, dropping his hand back onto the bed.

Sighing softly, Rachel patiently held the cup up in front of Fakir, who stubbornly reached for the glass again with his shaky left hand this time. Even as Fakir successfully sipped the water, Rachel continued to hold the bottom of the cup, helping to steady it.

After the glass was emptied and set aside, Fakir asked, "What hospital is this?"

"Bellevue.* You've been here for two days. The doctors operated on your hand last night, and you've been asleep until just now. You also have some cuts and a few bruises, but nothing serious. You were very lucky," the singer said quietly, reaching up and touching his bandaged cheek.

Looking down at his right hand for the first time, Fakir saw that it was wrapped in bandages and held in a splint that gently curled his fingers inward.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

Rachel was about to reply when a doctor and nurse appeared beside the cubicle curtains. The singer stood up, greeting the doctor, then to Fakir she said, "This is Dr. Edwards. He'll be able to tell you about it in more detail than I can."

After a brief introduction and a few questions about how he was feeling, the doctor and the nurse went about the routine of checking Fakir's vital signs. Once the doctor finished his notes, Fakir repeated his question, and the doctor answered, "The knife damaged the flexor tendons in your middle and forefinger; these are what allow the fingers to curve. It will take time to let those tendons, muscles, and other tissues heal, and you will likely experience some stiffness in those fingers even after the wound itself has closed."

"And how long will that take?"

"You'll have to have a splint on for a few weeks, and full recovery will take months. It's important that you don't aggravate the injury, lest scar tissues form."

That wasn't what Fakir had wanted to hear. With his mind dulled by the morphine and his recalcitrant body still feeling heavy and weak, Fakir could only respond with a despondent frown.

Noticing his expression, the doctor tried to sound optimistic. "Recovery will take a while, but with proper rest and therapy you should regain full function of your hand." Looking down at his clipboard, the doctor added, "We would like to keep you here for another day. In the meantime you need to rest; your body has taken quite a beating."

Seeing the dejection on Fakir's face, Rachel leaned forward and said to the doctor, "Dr. Edwards, would it be all right if Fakir stayed with me after he's discharged? The cold can't be good for his injuries, and there's central heating in my apartment.

"Also, it's almost the holidays…" Rachel paused, glancing at Fakir, "It would be nice to have you with us for Christmas. It's been so long since we were last together as a family for the holiday."

Hearing this, the doctor nodded approvingly, turning to Fakir. "That would be wonderful. It'd be best to have someone stay with you for a few days while you recover. There is a small chance that there are other injuries we're not aware of, and just in case something goes wrong, having someone nearby to bring you in would be a good idea."

Seeing Rachel's hopeful expression and goaded by the doctor's recommendation, Fakir grudgingly agreed. "Alright, then."

After making sure Fakir and Rachel had no further questions, the doctor and nurse departed. As the two of them left the room, Charon appeared at the door and Rachel got up to greet him.

"Good morning, Captain Sideros."

"Good morning to you as well, Mrs. Strauss," Charon said, doffing his hat. He walked up to Fakir's bed and asked, "How do you feel, Fakir?"

Fakir said nothing, but glared angrily at his useless right hand. Charon turned to Rachel and asked, "Would you mind if I have a minute with Fakir, Mrs. Strauss? I won't take long, I promise."

"Oh, yes, certainly." Rachel excused herself, and with one last look at the two men behind her, drew the curtain shut.

Charon eased himself into the chair beside the bed, hanging his hat on the back of the chair. Fakir turned his head to the older man, his rage at his invalid arm momentarily put aside as he asked with urgency, "What's happened to Duck? Is she all right? And that reporter…"

"Mr. Brahms is fine, though very shaken up. As for Miss Stannus…" here Charon paused. "She's…in the custody of the Marshals, and they have placed her in a safe location."

The uncharacteristic hesitation in Charon's tone bothered Fakir. He frowned and the captain seemed reluctant before he spoke again. "However, Miss Stannus—that is, Duck—will no longer be a witness in the Corvo case."

"What?" Fakir couldn't be sure what he was hearing, and wondered if his mind had been more muddled by the painkiller than he'd thought.

Charon's shoulders slumped as he took a breath and held Fakir's gaze. "She had made a deal with Rue Corvo. In exchange for the information of your whereabouts, Duck promised her that she would no longer serve as a witness to Alphonse's murder.

"When we were searching for you, Miss Stannus told us she knew someone who might be able to inform us of where you were. That someone turned out to be Rue Corvo, which was a surprise to me to say the least," the captain said, arching his brows as he remembered his initial astonishment. "I haven't any idea how she knew Rue Corvo or how she had gotten her contact information—Duck refused to say—but she was able to get in touch with Miss Corvo and work out a deal. Apparently Rue Corvo knew a few places where her father's men might've taken you, which allowed us to send out search parties." Charon folded his hands. "In return for that information, however, Duck promised Rue that she would, in essence, 'disappear forever'."

"Disappear…forever?" Fakir whispered, stunned.

"Yes. Meaning, she will leave the city with a new identity that the Marshals will provide for her, and she will never return to New York again," Charon said gravely.

Upon hearing his words, so many feelings welled up in Fakir: shock, anger, regret, sadness, and to his greatest surprise, loss.

Her existence to him had initially been no different than the bagged and cataloged inanimate objects in the precinct's archives—just another piece of evidence in the case he'd poured his entire life into building.

But somehow she'd worked under his skin. He'd come to be able to spot her fiery red mane out of a busy crowd of hundreds, to appreciate and even admire her for her quiet courage. Fakir remembered Duck's face as she yelled and glowered at him, scuttled away to work in her clumsy fashion after realizing she was late again, and most of all, her unguarded sincere smile.

Now, the life she had always known here in New York City would be forever forfeit. She would leave behind her home, everything and everyone she'd ever known, and give it up willingly—all for his sake.

"Idiot," Fakir muttered softly, closing his eyes as something made them sting.

Charon reached into his coat pocket and when Fakir opened his eyes again, he saw an envelope and a newspaper clipping in Charon's hand. Charon took out the letter and placed it alongside the clipping on Fakir's bed. "There's something else I need to tell you. The commissioner has promoted you to sergeant. I just got the letter an hour ago."

Fakir picked up the letter with his left hand. In it, the commissioner noted Fakir's work with the precinct and praised him for his bravery and dedication. The language was congratulatory yet impersonal.

It was when he reached the paragraph regarding his promotion that made Fakir sit up straight in his bed regardless of his body's discomfort, his eyes wide in disbelief.

"I'm being transferred out of Homicide?" Fakir asked incredulously.

Charon nodded. "Effectively when you return from your leave of absence, you will henceforth be working in Missing Persons."

He picked up the newspaper clipping and said grimly, "I actually found out about the transfer this morning when I read the morning news. The press has followed the attack on you and Duck very closely, and somehow they caught wind of the promotion before the letter reached my desk this morning."

Fakir put the letter down, his eyes dark. "The Corvos are behind this, aren't they?"

"Most likely," the captain said uneasily.

Leaning forward in the chair, Charon rested his elbows on his knees. "The city council has close ties with the mob, and it would not surprise me if the Corvos pressured the commissioner into transferring you to a different division. But, notice that there is not a single mention of their name in that article; they must have had to muster a lot of influence this time to keep their name out of the papers."

Charon's brows furrowed and he folded his hands together under his chin. "They may have been willing to let you go this time, but I'm certain they won't stand to have you in their way again."

Fakir closed his left hand around the commissioner's letter and crumbled it into a wad.

With a deep sigh, Charon unlaced his hands and stood up. Putting back on his hat, the captain turned toward Fakir again. "We will simply have to make the best out of a bad situation. You should get some rest, Fakir."

Charon paused with his hands on the curtain and said quietly, "Letting go is one of the hardest things to do in life, but sometimes it is all one can do to move on."

There was no response from Fakir except for turning his head away, tightly shutting his eyes. Charon drew aside the curtain and walked out of the hospital room.

When he opened the door Rachel was standing in the hallway, waiting for him.

"I want to thank you, Captain," the opera singer smiled sincerely at him, "for saving Fakir's life."

Charon shook his head modestly. "No, I can hardly take any credit for that."

"But you did. And not once, but twice," Rachel said quietly with conviction. "When he was a small child, you were the one who found him and realized that he was still alive. Had you not helped him get treatment in time, he might not have made it."

Surprised, Charon looked more fully at Rachel. "You remember me?"

She nodded. "I remember seeing you sitting beside Fakir's bedside when he was in the hospital back then."

Rachel briefly closed her violet eyes at the memory. She was a young girl then, and had run ahead from her parents to find her cousin's hospital room. Peeking into the hospital ward, she saw a younger Charon sitting beside a sleeping Fakir. The young officer looked up and smiled when he noticed the young girl peering at him from the door. Rachel had ducked out of the door shyly when her parents appeared and Charon stood up to meet them.

"You saved Fakir back then, and you took him under your wing after he entered the police force. I—our whole family—are indebted to you."

Charon exhaled softly, looking back into Fakir's room. "The murder of Fakir's parents was my first homicide case as a detective. That's something I will never forget." He placed his hand on his chin. "But, I never expected that little boy to show up many years later in my office as a novice police officer. I have tried to guide him as best as I can throughout these past few years, but…I can't help but think I have failed him somehow."

The captain pursed his lips ruefully. "Had I been able to solve his parents' murder back then, he wouldn't have become so fixated on the Corvos. From the very beginning, this case has only brought him pain, and there's nothing I can do as his superior or mentor to help him."

A light pressure on Charon's arm nudged the captain out of his reveries. He looked up to see Rachel's hand on his arm. "You've done everything you could, Captain. And if anyone's at fault, I share part of the blame too."

Rachel drew her hands together and gazed down at the ground. "I thought that Duck could help Fakir put his past behind him. They seemed so at ease around one another, and so trusting, so I told her about what had happened to Fakir's parents. But in doing so, though I hadn't realized it, I only added to Duck's burden."

"How did you know…?" Charon began, but Rachel answered before he could continue.

"I'm sorry, I overheard Duck's name as I was leaving, so I…I stayed and listened," Rachel confessed, her eyes flitting to Charon, and then back to the floor. "I hadn't known Duck was also involved in this case, and in such a sensitive manner too. If I had…"

The brunette singer exhaled deeply, "I know it's not my place to ask, but I must know: is she really all right?"

"Yes, don't worry; she is safe, that I can tell you for certain. But it won't be easy for her. She'll have to leave everything she's ever known behind and start a new, unfamiliar life."

Charon glanced out the hallway window at the trees outside as a strong breeze broke off and carried away the last stray leaf on one of the trees into the wind. Charon's eyes followed the leaf as it was lifted higher and farther away into the air until it was out of view. "'To disappear and never return'; that was the deal she had made."

* * *

Across the other side of the city, Duck laid on her hotel bed, staring blankly at the ceiling of her hotel room. The flutter of a bird's wings outside the window caught Duck's ears. Pushing herself up, she walked to the window and saw a pair of pigeons resting below the eave. She smiled at the birds and pressed her forehead against the glass, continuing to gaze up at them.

 _I wonder how Fakir's doing…_ Duck's blue eyes wandered across the city from her fifth floor vantage point.

After his successful rescue, Duck had wanted to see Fakir, but Charon had strongly advised against it. With her identity now exposed, it would be highly unwise to go out in public. Just because Duck had agreed to remain silent, there was no guarantee that the Corvos wouldn't still try to silence her for good.

Not long after Charon had spoke with her, a group of men calling themselves US Marshals had taken her here to this hotel. Upon their arrival, they had placed a guard at her door and insisted that she not leave her room for any reason. Duck knew the security was for her safety's sake, but a prison formed by good intentions was still a prison.

Now, besides the clothes on her back and the few items she had in her purse, Duck had nothing else to call her own. Though the Marshals had promised her they would bring her a change of clothes, then arrange to move her and her belongings at home to a safe location permanently, she hadn't spoken with anyone in nearly a day.

Under normal circumstances Duck would've chaffed at all these restrictions placed upon her, but she knew that despite her frustration and boredom, this sacrifice was for a greater purpose. She had no regrets trading her freedom for Fakir's life. For someone who was willing to put his life on the line for her, Duck felt this was the least she could do to repay him.

Still, a part of her felt a deep pang of heartache. There would be no more whispered gossips behind the counter with Lillie and Pique, no more Mr. Kotin expounding at length about marriage, no more Miss Edel to greet every morning, and—Duck smiled wistfully—no more Fakir to banter with on the way to and from work every day.

A knock on the door startled Duck and she spun around from the window. "A letter for you, Miss Stannus," the officer standing guard outside said through the door.

Duck hurriedly went to open the door and was greeted by a second man, who held up a white envelope in his hand. "A person who called herself Miss Edel left this at the precinct today. She asked the officers there to give this to you, and so they've forwarded it to us," the man explained. "Do you know this person?"

"Miss Edel?" Duck's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes! I do know her!"

Once the letter was handed to her, she immediately examined the envelope, which was addressed as only "To Duck".

Perplexed by the unexpected letter but overjoyed to receive something from someone dear to her, Duck thanked the agents, and closed the door. Once she had sat down on the bed, she carefully slit the envelope open with her thumb.

Expecting to find a greeting addressing her, Duck was again surprised when she saw instead the title of a story.

" _The Story-Collector's Daughter"_

_Once upon a time, there was a man who loved stories. He traveled far and wide, collecting many tales from the countless places he visited. The man had a beautiful daughter, who loved to dance and dreamt of becoming a dancer one day._

_One day, the man was visiting an old friend and had brought his beautiful daughter with him. He asked his friend if there were any interesting stories to add to his collection. His friend replied, "There is an old woman in town who knows many things. Her name is Oma Eiche, and she has seen and heard many tales in her long life. But even more than the tales she knows already, she can foretell stories that have yet to occur. You can find her shop by the town wall, near a field with outcrops of stone that surround an ancient oak tree."_

_His interest piqued, the story-collector and his daughter sought out Oma Eiche at her shop. They were greeted at the door by Oma Eiche's wide-eyed helper, a little girl whom all the locals called Wachtel._

" _We're here to see Oma Eiche, little one," the man said to Wachtel._

" _Oh, Oma has visitors, zura!" the little girl exclaimed excitedly, and began tapping away on the toy drum strapped around her waist. She eagerly led them into the shop, where dried herbs sat in glass jars and an earthy scent permeated the dimly lit rafters._

_Oma Eiche was seated in front of a low table draped with a deep forest-green cloth. On the table were many colorful objects._

_From her seat, Oma Eiche welcomed the man and his daughter. "I had a feeling someone was going to come see me today. Tell me, sir, what can I do for you and your daughter?"_

" _A fortune, if you please," the man gestured to his daughter. "I hear you can foretell stories that have yet to happen, and I would like to ask you to tell my child's future."_

" _Very well," Oma Eiche answered and looked kindly at the girl. "Ask three questions dear, anything at all."_

_Wachtel watched with curious eyes from the edge of the table as the pretty young girl spoke shyly to the elderly woman, "Please, Oma, tell me these things: will I become a great dancer someday? Will I find true love? And, will he and I be happy together?"_

_Oma Eiche chuckled. "I will address them one at a time. The stones will tell me the answers."_

_She collected the various objects on the table, which included various brightly colored stones, a feather, and a silver spoon. She held them above the table for a moment, and allowed them to fall onto the table._

_Peering down at the objects before her, Oma Eiche began, "For your first question, I see success in your future. If you work hard, I'm sure you shall become an accomplished dancer," she said, touching a polished white stone embedded with specks of gold in the middle of the table. At these words, the daughter's face lit up with joy, and she clasped her hands together in anticipation._

" _For your second question, I see that you will meet and fall in love with a young man of noble birth," she continued, pointing to a pink quartz stone that lay next to a small, silver spoon._

" _However," Oma Eiche touched the black porous rock hiding behind the spoon, "the stones tell me there will be strife and sorrow as well."_

_The brows of the story collector's daughter furrowed worriedly. "Does that mean we will not be happy together?"_

" _Not necessarily," Oma Eiche shook her head._

_The old woman smiled and everyone else's eyes followed her gaze onto the tawny tuft of duck down and a piece of clear crystal that sat at the head of the table. "By living, we experience sorrow, but also joy. I see a bright beacon of hope and joy; your future child, my dear, will always be a source of delight and contentment for you."_

" _But how does Oma know, zura?" Wachtel asked, cocking her head up to look inquisitively at her Oma._

_Oma Eiche pointed to the feather. "Like a duck, this child may appear silly, but there is great strength in her heart," she said as she pointed at the clear crystal. "She, too, will be able to overcome great obstacles."_

" _A duck-like girl, hmm?" The story-collector said thoughtfully, stroking his pointy beard. "That would indeed make for a remarkable story!"_

_Oma Eiche patted Wachtel's head gently. Smiling, she looked back up at the man's daughter. "A duck may be plain, but it has the strength to fly great distances to find lush pastures, year after year. There are few who are so small yet so resilient."_

Here the story abruptly ended, and Duck lowered the letter onto her lap, greatly perplexed by what she'd read. Why had Miss Edel sent this letter to her? And what happened to the story-collector's daughter? Did Oma Eiche's predictions come true?

_It will be all right…_

Duck blinked at the echo of her mother's last words. She looked back at the letter and reread the last paragraph aloud.

"A duck may be plain, but it has the strength to fly great distances to find lush pastures, year after year. There are few who are so small yet so resilient."

That's when Duck understood. "Could this story…be about me?" she whispered to the empty room.

She had always thought her grandfather had named her "Duck" due to his considerable eccentricity, and her mother had gone along with it to humor him. But now Duck reconsidered the reason.

Elsa had wanted her daughter to be duck-like, not for the creature's seemingly loud and silly demeanor, but for its fortitude and strength in the face of adversity. That thought made Duck smile as she gently hugged Edel's fairytale to her chest.

Even though she would be forced to sever all contact with her precious friends, Duck now had the knowledge that someone was thinking about her here, at the place she called home, and that her mother, though long gone, had also wanted her to be strong and look to the future, no matter what hardships might come her way.

Wiping away the little beads of tears that had formed at the corners of her eyes, Duck tucked the beloved letter carefully into her purse, adding it to her small collection of personal belongings that remained with her.

* * *

_BAM!_

The Don slammed his cane into the floor of the study, his bowed figure radiating a threatening aura of rage.

"Please, Daddy…" Rue pled meekly. "I-I _know_ Duck will keep her word! The Marshals have already moved her away from her home and will take her away from New York within the week! We'll be rid of her forever—!"

"SILENCE!"

The Don, breathing heavily through his nose, roared, "How _dare_ you tell me what to think! I don't give a damn what you said to the witness! I am the Don of the Corvos, and _I'm_ the one who makes the decisions in this family, not a stupid girl like you!"

Before him, Rue could only cower as Don Corvo continued his tirade. "You have utterly disgraced me, Rue. To think I put so much time and attention into raising you right, only to have my _own daughter_ betray me, making deals behind my back!"

His livid voice suddenly dropped to an ice cold whisper, sending shivers of pure terror up Rue's spine. "Don't think just because you are my flesh and blood I won't bury you with my own hands if I must. I will dispose of _anyone_ who gets in my way."

Rue blanched as a whimper escaped her throat. "N-no, Daddy! I-I'm so sorry! Please don't!"

The Don stormed towards Rue and the young woman took a few terrified steps away from her father. "If word gets out that I can't even keep my own daughter under control, what will the others think of me? Mark my words: I _will not_ have you meddle in my business any further! Just be thankful I might have some use for you yet."

The Don forcefully called for the butler, who obsequiously entered the room. "Take Rue back to her room and make sure she doesn't leave without my explicit permission. Remove her telephone as well."

The Don shot one last revolted glance at the quaking young woman. "Now get out of my sight, you ungrateful child!"

Shaking, Rue was helplessly led away from the room by the butler, as if she were a prisoner. Before the door closed, she cast her eyes back at Mytho, silently begging for his support. Mytho met her gaze, but turned his eyes away, his expression stony and inscrutable.

With a click, the door closed and the Don was left alone with Mytho. The Don hobbled back to his seat, and said in a low rumbling voice, "We need to find out where that witness is being moved. It will be too risky to get at her while she's still in the city. Our name has thankfully remained out of the papers, but we can't risk any more activity that will draw attention to ourselves."

Turning to Mytho, the Don said, "Unfortunately we don't have anyone at the federal level who can find out where that girl is going. We'll have to use that resource we have within the police to ferret out the details."

The Don gestured at Mytho with his cane, as if to direct him with it. "Send a telegram to 'our little friend'. We need to know where the witness is going, and when. This won't be an easy task at the present time, so mention that if this information can be obtained within a week, we will consider that debt owed to us as null; that should be sufficient incentive."

"What exactly do you plan to do with the witness, Father?"

The Don cocked an eyebrow at Mytho. "Kill her, of course. Why? Do you have other ideas, Mytho?"

The white clad capo paused, and then said cautiously, "I don't condone Rue's actions, but perhaps allowing the witness to relocate and disappear on her own will be better for us in the long run. Any hit attempt stands a risk of us being exposed, and as you yourself have said, Father, we can't risk any missteps before the conference."

"So you're taking Rue's side, are you?" the old man growled. "It seems like her foolishness has affected you as well! That, or else," Don Corvo narrowed his eyes, "you're starting to get soft. Why did you not finish off the detective like I had instructed you?"

Mytho's brows twitched, and he frowned. "I would have, but…the police arrived unexpectedly, so I wasn't able to finish the task."

"Hmph!" The Don grunted at Mytho's lukewarm response. "An excuse exists for every mishap, so it seems!"

He exhaled sharply, and then waved his hand at the capo dismissively. "Leave me; I need time to think so I can undo the messes both of you have caused."

Mytho nodded his head and left the Don to himself.

Wanting to calm himself, the patriarch summoned the butler for his favorite Brunello di Montalcino wine to be brought to him. While the butler went to fetch the bottle, the Don settled himself in his chair and set his cane against the side of it.

The Don did not like to doubt himself, but now he wondered whether having Mytho succeed him might have been a mistake. Mytho should've had plenty of time to kill the detective, and yet was only able to injure him. That show of hesitation worried the Don. As one being groomed for the title of his successor, Mytho had to be capable of doing anything, without reservation, to preserve the family's interests.

The Don's train of thought was interrupted by a light knock as the butler returned with the glass of wine, along with a crisply folded newspaper, on a tray. "Your wine, sir."

The butler set the glass down on the desk, then paused with his hand on the newspaper and asked deferentially, "Would you care to peruse the morning post, or shall I take it away?"

The Don thought for a moment. Finally, he nodded. "Might as well; it's best if I check to make sure those aggravating newsmen aren't saying anything they shouldn't be."

After the butler excused himself with a submissive bow, the Don laid the newspaper out on his desk. He skimmed the headlines, and soon enough found the article of interest.

"Bronx Detective Rescued. Criminals Still At Large."

Don Corvo glanced through the article, which gave a vague description of how the kidnapped officer was found and rescued, and then described in detail his injuries and the promotion. The article concluded with a short but flattering biography of the detective, peppered with typical media hyperbole.

"Officer Romeiras was born here in New York City, but spent much of his childhood in Nordlingen, Pennsylvania. Despite having lived away from New York for many years, he was deeply devoted to the city of his birth, and returned after obtaining his law degree to serve the New York law enforcement. As a promising young officer, his colleagues attest to his devotion to justice and wish him a speedy recovery, and will work speedily to apprehend those responsible for his ordeal."

Don Corvo saw nothing that greatly alarmed him, but for some inexplicable reason as he reached for his wine glass, he couldn't shake the feeling that something in the article nagged at him.

The Don took another sip of the Brunello and reread the article.

"Born in New York…childhood in Nordlingen, Pennsylvania…" The Don's dark brows drew together.

That strange Germanic name sounded oddly familiar. Though he might be advanced in age, the Don's memory was still remarkably sharp.

"Nordlingen...the same town Mytho was from, wasn't it?" he murmured to himself.

Cradling the wine glass in his hands, his eyes narrowed. _Maybe there's another reason Mytho didn't kill the copper_ …

Domenico Corvo was not a man who believed in coincidences. Especially not when the future of the Corvo family was on the line. Perhaps it was time to take another look at Mytho's past. A much closer look.

With that in mind, Don Corvo put down his wine glass and reached for the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Bellevue Hospital Center is the oldest public hospital in the US. I first learned about Bellevue through the book The Poisoner's Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York. It detailed the work of Charles Norris, who was a leader in establishing the field of forensic toxicology. He was the chief medical examiner of New York City and operated a lab in Bellevue.
> 
> * "Oma Eiche" means "Grandma Oak", and "Watchel" means "Quail" in German. The method of fortunetelling Oma Eiche used is called lithomancy, which is divination using stones, though other objects that symbolize different things can also be used.
> 
> Many thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing.


	17. Chapter 17

"Mama? Papa?"

A little boy rubbed his sleepy eyes, sitting up from his bed. His bedroom was dark, save for a sliver of moonlight that crept through the crack in the curtains.

 _THUMP!_ The loud noise made the boy jump a little.

Then, he heard his papa's voice shouting in a mix of English and Portuguese.

 _What's going on?_ the boy thought, crawling out of bed. _Who is Papa yelling at this late?_ He tiptoed into the short hallway and headed for the family's small sitting room where he heard his father shouting from.

_WHUMP!_

The sounds of cracking wood and the stomping of feet startled the boy, stopping him in his tracks for a moment. Though gripped by fear, he forced himself to continue onward.

Peering warily into the living room, the boy could see the silhouettes of his parents, their backs illuminated by the lone kerosene lamp on the side table. His father stood firm with a baseball bat in hand in front of his mother, trying to shield her from the two strangers clad in black coats who had broken down their front door.

The shadows cast by the lamp hid the intruders' faces behind the brim of their hats, and each of the men carried something dark and long. Before the boy could make out what they were, his father raised the baseball bat and swung it at the men with a shout.

_BANG!_

The boy's mother screamed, but her cries were drowned out by two more thunderous blasts. As the child watched with wide, horrified eyes, his father doubled over and crumpled to the floor, making no further sound as he lay there unmoving.

The boy froze dead in the hallway entrance. Something thick and suffocating rose in his throat, and when he finally opened his mouth, he let forth an agonized scream.

" _PAPA!_ "

His mother and the two men turned toward the boy. The intruders took a few steps into the room, aiming their weapons at him. His mother dove in front of the hallway, grabbed hold of the boy's arm, and dashed towards the door, deliberately throwing herself in the direct line between the men and her son.

Another deafening blast roared in the boy's ears and the lamp in the room fell to the ground, shattering. In its last flickering moments, all the boy could see were his mother's terrified blue eyes.

Fakir woke up gasping for air, tears trailing down his face. The haunting pair of azure eyes was gone, replaced with the gray tranquility of Rachel's guest bedroom.

His shirt damp with sweat, Fakir laid there in bed and covered his eyes with his arm, breathing heavily in and out though his nose. Gradually, the pounding in his chest subsided as the nightmare retreated into the realm of memories.

Sitting up gingerly, without thinking he tried to pull the sheets over his shoulders with his bandaged right hand, sending a twinge of pain up his arm, making him wince briefly. Fakir shivered a little from the chill air in the room, and turned his head toward the faint streetlight glowing from behind the curtains.

It had been years since he'd last had a dream about his parents' death. The dream was the same each time. His father was gunned down while trying to protect his family and his mother's eyes stared into Fakir's as she shielded him with her own body.

But something had been different this time. Even without any colors in the black and white photographs he had of his parents, Fakir would never forget his mother's green eyes, the same shade of emerald green as his own. Yet, the eyes he saw tonight were…

Clasping his knees to his chest, Fakir squinted his eyes shut. The reason he had become a police officer was to gain the ability to protect others. Despite all his efforts, though, _he_ was still the one being protected by others. Both his parents and Duck had sacrificed themselves for his sake. Whether he was a boy or a grown man, it made no difference: in the end, he was just as helpless.

Fakir clenched his left hand into a fist as his eyes reopened. The Corvos had already taken so much from him, and the longer he stood by and did nothing, the more powerful they would become.

They might have tried to get him out of their way, but Fakir was not ready to give up this fight. He had lost too much to quit now.

* * *

On the morning of December 24th, Rachel stepped into her apartment, her hands laden with last-minute groceries to prepare for Christmas Eve's supper.

Walking past the foyer, she was greeted by a miniature Christmas tree, draped with silver tinsel and multicolored glass ornaments shining softly in the clear morning light. The singer smiled at the sight of the cheerful little tree.

As she placed her purchases down on the wooden floor, a leather suitcase sitting across the room caught her eyes.

The sound of rapid footsteps from above drew Rachel's eyes up to Fakir who was descending the stairs, his coat in his arms. He paused when he spotted Rachel at the door, her smile replaced by a frown of confusion and heartbreak.

Fakir turned his face away as he reached the foot of the stairs. Without meeting his cousin's gaze, Fakir said, "I need to get back to work. My apartment is a lot closer to the precinct than here."

"Must you leave today?" Rachel asked, her thin brows wrinkling. "It's Christmas Eve; can't you stay for supper, at least?"

Fakir shrugged on his coat, his back to his cousin. "I'm sorry, Rachel, but I have to go."

"But, your hand—the wound hasn't healed completely, and…"

Fakir put on his hat, not answering her.

Rachel held her cousin's arm entreatingly. In a soft, pained voice, she said, "Fakir, please…don't push me away like this."

Lifting his gaze from the ground, Fakir placed his hand briefly over Rachel's before gently pushing her hand away. "I don't hate you, Rachel. But I don't want any more innocent people to get dragged into this nightmare."

With that, he picked up his suitcase and Rachel could only watch as Fakir closed the door behind him.

Fakir headed back to his apartment aboard a crowded streetcar. The tram creaked and groaned as its wheels rolled against the metal tracks. Though the passengers were crammed shoulder to shoulder, no one made eye contact, each person on his own isolated island of thought. In this crowded solitude, Fakir gazed silently upon the city outside, the rim of his hat hanging low over his eyes as increasingly familiar streets and landmarks came into view.

When the streetcar stopped at the station near Lake Avenue, Fakir disembarked, hailed by the bare sycamores lining the streets on either side, the frosty winter wind having stripped them of their remaining tattered leaves. Picking up his suitcase, Fakir walked towards the building he used to share with Duck.

When he reached Lake Avenue, the dark-haired detective was surprised by the sight of two men shuttling old tea chests and boxes out of the building and onto a truck parked beside the curb.

Far more concerned with balancing the teetering loads in their hands, they did not pay Fakir any mind as he walked past them up the stairs. Glancing into the boxes in the men's arms, Fakir could see bits of crockery and other household items nestled within the newsprint cushioning.

His eyes caught on the familiar etchings of painted pink peonies and rose buds on the side of a porcelain teacup. Recognizing it as Duck's, Fakir quickened his footsteps, and following the trail of movers, he arrived to find her door propped open.

Walking inside, Fakir looked around the dining area. Save for a tiny round table and a dish cabinet, its drawers having been pulled out and emptied, there was nothing else left in the room. Wandering into the kitchen, Fakir saw that it too had been cleared out, with only the sink and the small cast iron stove remaining in the now vacant room.

As Fakir stepped towards the bedroom, a voice called out, "Hey, what are you doing here? No one's allowed in here expect for the movers."

A young man with dull brown hair appeared from within the bedroom. As he was wearing a dress shirt and suit trousers, Fakir figured he was likely a foreman. But judging from the man's disgruntled expression, and the fact that he was wiping his flushed face with a damp handkerchief, this man was not used to manual labor and thus none too enthusiastic about this particular assignment.

"Fakir Romeiras. I'm a detective with the 53rd Precinct," Fakir said, showing the man his badge. "I live next door."

Hearing the detective's name, the young man's face lit up. "Oh, so it's you! My name's Roger, Roger Armadillan, from the 56th precinct." Hurriedly, he stuffed the handkerchief into his trouser pocket, and then stuck out his arm for Fakir to shake while he prattled on. "I heard about you from the fellas in my department, and from the papers too, of course. Tough deal, what you went through. Boy, have you got some guts for standing up to those goons!"

The effusive praise made Fakir uncomfortable and he returned the handshake hesitantly. To mask his discomfort, he walked past the young officer to stand inside the bedroom. Like the rest of the abode, much of the cabinets and drawers had been emptied, with crumpled newsprints and straw littering the floor. The bed too had been stripped, and only the mattress remained on the metal frame.

"It looks like almost everything's been cleared out," Fakir said to himself, running his fingertips absently down the corner of the bare white headboard.

Thinking it was a question directed at him, Roger nodded. "Yessir! We only got started yesterday. Things have been a bit slow with only two movers, though personally, I think they're dragging their feet on purpose, since we'll have to pay them more to work on Christmas," he added with a little annoyance in his tone. "Still, from the looks of it, we'll get everything moved out by the end of today, in time for the witness to catch her train the day after tomorrow. I've been pitching in to speed up the pace, but it's amazing how much junk a girl can have. That's just how women are, I suppose," he shrugged flippantly. Fakir's unbandaged left hand clenched into a fist at the remark.

The detective watched the movers work as little by little the material items that had made this Duck's home disappeared into various unmarked boxes and containers. "Do you know where she's going?" he asked.

"Well, that's something I'm not privy to," Roger replied, scratching his cheek. "All I know is that the Marshals are taking care of everything after our work is done here."

Fakir said nothing. Seeing Duck's belongings being impersonally bundled away to be delivered to a remote, foreign place—just like Duck was—left an empty feeling in Fakir's chest.

Scanning the room absently, a small pale silhouette caught Fakir's eyes. Kneeling down in front of a box by his feet, Fakir drew a small surprised gasp when he spotted a photo of an elegant, white-clad ballerina.

From her long, slender legs, to her expressively outstretched arms, Fakir at first thought the dancer was Duck, transformed by some remarkable magic from the clumsy girl he knew into a prima ballerina. But when Fakir picked up the picture frame and examined it more closely, he noticed the signature at the bottom and realized that this was none other than Elsa, Duck's mother.

Looking back inside the box, Fakir's green eyes softened at another picture of that same mother with her daughter together. _The resemblance really is uncanny_ , Fakir thought as he gazed at Duck, in the picture a young child, grinning at him from across time. Despite himself, the infectiously joyful sight of the smiling mother-daughter pair tugged at the corners of Fakir's lips.

Carefully setting the photos aside, Fakir reached into the box again and picked up a pair of well-worn toe shoes, which Fakir deduced must have belonged to Elsa. Hidden underneath them was a small jewelry box, which Fakir opened to find the gold-framed garnet pendant he had seen Duck wear on the night of the opera.

Something else about the pendant felt familiar, and when Fakir glanced back at the photo of Elsa and young Duck, he saw the same pendant peeking out from behind Elsa's shirt collar.

Roger had been looking over Fakir's shoulder, brimming with curiosity as to what the detective was doing. Finally unable to contain himself, the young officer piped in a question. "Er, is something wrong?"

Fakir blinked, then gently closed the jewelry box and placed the items back into the box. "Nothing." He stood up, turned toward Roger and placed the box in the arms of the brunet young man. "But, the things in this box are important to…"

Fakir paused, Duck's name catching in his throat. "…to the person they belong to. Make sure to have them delivered to her in person."

Roger looked down at the box of objects Fakir had just handed him, confused. "Uh, the photographs, sure. But how are a pair of old worn-out shoes worth holding onto?" he asked, shifting the box around in his arms as he followed Fakir out of Duck's apartment.

Fakir ignored him and began unlocking the door to his own apartment. As the detective went inside, behind him from the doorway, Roger said with a laugh, "Doesn't make for a very good Christmas present, if you ask me!"

Fakir paused. Fixing the jolly young officer with a cold glare, Fakir shut the door loudly in Roger's face.

* * *

Charon placed his pen down amid the paperwork that lay spread out across his desk. Leaning back into his chair, he stretched his sore back, throwing his arms into the air.

 _Guess I'm not as young as I used to be_ ; _even just sitting in a chair all day is tiring_. He sighed wistfully as he massaged his shoulders.

Outside his office window, darkness had long since descended, and when Charon glanced at the clock, he saw it was already well past eight.

With Christmas just around the corner, the usually bustling precinct building had now gone quiet as the officers on duty had left for their rounds, while the others had gone home to their families for the holiday. In this rare window of stillness, Charon's thoughts turned to the case that had preoccupied him to this late hour, a case that had embroiled his entire precinct and turned the life of a young woman upside down.

Ever since Duck had haplessly witnessed the murder of a former Corvo gang member, Charon wondered how it was that the Corvos had uncovered Alphonse as an informant in the first place. There were a number of possibilities: Alphonse might've been careless and given himself away in a conversation, or he might've been overheard contacting the police. But with no actual leads, Charon had no idea of the cause that resulted in the man's death.

With the Corvos attempting to abduct Duck, however, Charon realized that there might have been something far more insidious at work. Fakir was far too scrupulous to accidentally give away information about the case, and Duck herself seemed well aware of the danger she faced.

Charon's instincts told him that there had likely been a breach of security within the precinct grounds. Up until this point, Fakir's abduction and its aftermath had prevented him from launching an investigation, along with handling the federal Marshals and all of the other day-to-day matters he was responsible for. Now, though, with a moment of reprieve to collect his thoughts, Charon leaned back into his chair, resting his elbows against the armrests with his hands tucked under his chin, and pondered: how could someone access files stored in the precinct?

For starters, they would have had to get into the premise. There were two entrances to the building, and both sets of doors had deadbolt locks. But, all police personnel had keys allowing them to enter the building freely, so it would not have been difficult for someone with malicious intent to steal the keys from a single person and enter the premises unauthorized.

Once within the premises, all the files on Duck and the Corvo case were stored in a locked filing cabinet in Charon's office, which had a door with a spring latch that locked automatically when the door closed, as was Charon's habit whenever he stepped out of his office. In his pocket, Charon carried the only key to his office, making it nigh impossible for someone from the outside to get into his office without him knowing. However, multiple cabinets in the precinct shared the same locks, including the one with Duck's files, so someone with another cabinet key could possibly use it to get into that particular cabinet.

Taken together, the circumstances led to only one likely scenario, and the captain grimaced at its dark implications. Charon had always trusted the people who worked at his precinct, many of whom he had known for years. But now, he needed to consider the strong possibility that at least one of his subordinates was acting as a double agent for the Corvos.

There had been previous cases elsewhere of police officers convicted of working for criminal enterprises, passing information to them for monetary gain. However, the idea that one of his own officers might have been responsible for what had happened to Duck and Fakir—it was distressing for the veteran captain to even think of it, much less come up with a list of suspects.

Tired and frustrated, Charon pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. For the time being, Charon decided unhappily, the best he could do was to raise the issue with Internal Affairs and handle the matter according to protocol. In the meanwhile, he would just have to stay vigilant and keep a close eye out for suspicious behavior from those around him.

Grasping his armrests, Charon stood up and gathered the scattered piles of paper on his desk. After arranging them neatly together, he placed the documents inside a large envelope, its front stamped with a red "CONFIDENTIAL" imprint, before locking the package in its corresponding filing cabinet.

His mind still preoccupied, Charon gathered up his belonging and pulled the door of his office shut before making his way through the quiet building and out onto the street.

A light snow had begun to fall, drifting like powdered sugar from the gray sky. Charon had barely walked down the block when a snowflake landed on his forehead, moistly tickling his skin. The captain reached up and touched his head, realizing only then that he'd forgotten his hat in his office. Silently chastising himself for his absentmindedness, Charon turned around and headed back for the precinct.

Deciding to take the back entrance, which was closer to his office, Charon paused several steps away from it to reach for his keys. When he looked back up, a petite figure stepped out from the doorway. In the dark, Charon had to squint to see who it was, but spotting her glasses and short hair, he recognized the person as their composite artist, Malen.

 _Had Malen forgotten something?_ Charon wondered. He had seen her in the precinct earlier in the day, but her desk was empty when he left. He was about to greet her when Malen hurriedly locked the door behind her, appearing not to have noticed Charon, and dashed onto the streets, quickly disappearing around the corner.

Frowning over Malen's strange behavior, Charon's thoughts returned to the question he had been pondering earlier. Picking up his pace, the captain made straight for his office.

As he reached his office door, his foot kicked something that made a small "clack". Looking down, Charon saw a small pebble, about the size of a bean, on the floor beneath him. Unlocking the door, Charon stepped into his office and, walking past his hat, went to examine the filing cabinet. Nothing looked amiss from a glance, but wanting to be certain, Charon unlocked the drawer where he'd stored Duck's paperwork and pulled out the envelope.

When he opened the envelope and went through the papers, Charon's brows furrowed. The neat order of the papers had been jumbled, with some of them looking like they had been hurriedly jammed back into the pile. The captain carefully took out each of the reshuffled sheets of paper and laid them out on his desk. As a pattern emerged, his heart sank.

Swiftly, he took out his telephone book from a drawer. Flipping to a page, Charon fingered a number and picked up the telephone earpiece. He started to dial, but then stopped.

 _No…if I tell the Marshals without solid evidence, they may very well blow me off._ Charon grimaced with doubt, lowering the earpiece.

He looked back at the sheets of paper on his desk, thinking. _I have to find some proof first. Maybe there's something to be found on the papers themselves…_

Going back to the phone book, he flipped a few more pages and began to dial a different number.

* * *

Inside her bedroom, Rue lay curled up on top of her bed, her eyes closed. Even though it was Christmas Eve, there was no one for her to celebrate with, nor was there any good cheer in her father's house.

Rue had not been allowed to leave her room or communicate with anyone outside the mansion for days. The sparse human contact she'd had was only with the servants, who had delivered her dinner, yet which lay barely touched on the table by her window.

Even Mytho had not been by, and as Rue's heavy eyelids cracked opened a fraction, she wondered if this too was part of her father's retribution for her actions.

A knock on her door made Rue open her eyes fully. Sitting up from the bed and tucking a bit of hair behind her ear, the young actress heard the butler's muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"Master Corvo wants to see you, miss. He instructs you to be at his study within ten minutes."

Rue's heart sank. Her verdict was to be announced. Though the young woman had the urge to run and hide, she knew it would be impossible to escape from her fate. Instead, she smoothed the creases from her dress, and re-pinned her hair, then headed for the door.

The gnawing trepidation in her stomach grew as she exited her room and was led to her destination by the butler, who then abandoned her in front of the study doors.

Under the impression her father had wanted to speak to her alone, Rue was surprised to hear the Don's voice behind the doors, speaking in an oddly cheerful tone to someone. Perplexed, she stepped closer to the door and pressed her ear to the wood to listen.

"…it's unfortunate, but priorities change in life. The girl insists she has found her new calling. I agree, it seems a bit of a waste, and after all that time and effort—but young people are so capricious these days."

A pause. "What's that? Will she come back?" A strangely jovial laugh emitted from the room. "Ah, she's gone too far with it to return to her studio work at this point. The final decisions have been made, so to speak. Yes, I know, I know. That's the way these things go. Well, it has been a pleasure speaking with you, Mr. Zukor. Good-bye now."*

Rue's eyes widened as she realized her father had been speaking to her producer on the phone. But before she could think about it further, her father called out, "Come in, Rue." Snapping out of her stupor, Rue apprehensively opened the door and stepped into the study.

The Don glanced at her and said with a cold sneer, "You overheard that, didn't you?"

"What did you say to Mr. Zukor, Daddy?" Rue asked, dread of the implications of her father's words earlier overriding her fear.

"Since you've become so interested in the family's business, going so far as to speak to the witness on your own volition, I've decided that you shall devote yourself entirely to the family." The Don rose, and gazing into Rue's pale face, he continued, "As the first step in that process, I have cancelled all of your contracts. Odile Legnanni is no more; from now on, you are and will only be Rue of the Corvos. Do you understand?"

Rue crumpled into a chair as her father's words sank in. She had expected her father's retribution to be swift and painful, but with one phone call, he had undone everything she had worked so hard for the past six years.

Mytho had once taunted her that she was nothing without her father's name. She had refused to believe it, and had tried to prove herself capable on her own terms. But now, as she sat in the shadowy study it was clear—she did not control her own fate: her father did. He could pave a path for her just as easily he could make it crumble from beneath her feet. She was but a puppet that had chosen to ignore the strings linking her to her father's manipulative hands, and now she was paying the price.

The Don hobbled across the room, his cane tapping its way towards Rue. When he reached her, he cupped her face with his wrinkled hand and lifted her chin to meet his gaze. "I have taken away your acting career as your punishment for defying me, Rue. But you are of my flesh and blood, and as such, require a new purpose to support my goals. You will now become Mytho's perfect and obedient wife, completely devoted to him. As my daughter, your marriage will help him cement his claim as my heir."

Seeing the dejection on Rue's face, the Don said chidingly, "Don't look so sad, Rue. I have been most merciful in my punishment. You'll forever be with the one you love, will you not? You should think of this as my generous gift to you." Taking his hand away, Rue's gaze dipped back down and she stared listlessly at her cold, pale hands.

Turning away from her, Don Corvo made his way back to his desk and said, "Mytho and I will undertake a trip shortly, and I want you to accompany me."

Rue blinked, lifting her ashen face. "A trip? To where?"

"We will set out by train in two days. That's all you need to know. Stephens?"

At the sound of his master's call, the butler appeared by the door. "Yes, sir?"

"Find Mytho. I need to speak to him."

To Rue, the Don said tersely, "I have no more to say to you. You can leave now."

Rue made no response except to stand up wearily from her seat.

After the butler had let himself and Rue out of the room, the Don sat down at his desk. There, he unlocked a drawer, and within it was a mismatched stack of documents, consisting mostly of telegrams, along with a mix of photos, train schedules, and handwritten notes.

With his bony finger, the Don plucked out two telegrams and a handwritten note. One of the two telegrams had been delivered early that morning, sent from a small town in Pennsylvania, while the other had arrived only an hour previous from the Bronx. Settling down in his chair, the Don's thoughts turned to his protégée.

One of the main reasons he had chosen Mytho as his heir was the young man's lack of connections within the city and otherwise, which in the Don's mind also meant his loyalties would lie wholly with the family. Yet, whether by a series of coincidences or an arrangement by Fate, two individuals directly tied to this case were now revealed to have connections to Mytho's obscure past.

The telegram from Orecchie had confirmed the Don's suspicions that Mytho had a personal reason to spare the detective. However, Don Corvo had honestly not expected the witness to be the daughter of Mytho's old dance instructor, though that certainly explained why Mytho had advocated ending their pursuit of her. In either case, the Don was not about to allow Mytho's past to hinder the path of his chosen heir.

_If Mytho is going to succeed me, I must make certain that his loyalties are absolute._

With a glass of Brunello in hand, he had spent the past few days contemplating the problem, and at last, this evening he had come up with a satisfactory solution.

Some extra arrangements would have to be made, and bribes would invariably have to be paid, but the Don did not care about such trifles. _This will be his final—and greatest—test of loyalty_ , he thought decisively.

A knock came from the door, and Mytho entered the room.

* * *

Grand Central Terminal was always crowded, but on the day after Christmas the platforms were like a giant beehive, abuzz with activity and traffic. From her seat on a bench alongside a small pile of crates, Duck idly watched the people walking past. A Marshal stood next to her, surveying the crowd attentively.

Absorbed in her observation of a group of fashionably dressed women who were busy flirting with some young soldiers, Duck looked up when she heard the Marshal say, "Ah, there they are."

A tall woman and a thickset man made their way towards Duck and the Marshal. The woman's curly brunette hair peeped out from under her wide brimmed hat. She was clutching a small cardboard box in one arm and waving at them with her free hand. Duck's guard returned the wave.

Duck stood up and the two parties approached one another. The relatively short redhead had to tilt her head upward to meet the gaze of the smiling woman as they shook hands.

"Sorry we arrived so late. How are you, Miss Stannus? My name is Hermia Bottoms, and this is Mr. Lysander," she said, gesturing at the stout, stern-faced man behind her. "We're Special Deputies with the Marshal Service. We'll be accompanying you on your trip to Detroit."

Duck smiled back. "Glad to meet you, Miss Bottoms and Mr. Lysander."

Lysander grunted at the greeting and turned away. Confused, Duck looked with uncertainty at Hermia and asked, "Um, did I do something to offend him?"

Hermia chuckled and cast a fond look at her partner. "Don't worry. He's just shy, that's all. Once you get to know him, he's really a very nice person."

 _Kind of like Fakir_ , Duck smiled in spite of herself.

"Also, I have something to give you," Hermia said, handing over the box she held to Duck. The red-haired young woman accepted the box, looking curiously at it.

Before she could open it, the train's whistle blew loudly, and Hermia looked up at the station clock. "Ah, we should get going—the train's departing soon. Have you got everything with you?"

After a quick check over and some fumbling with the luggage, Duck was led aboard the train by the pair of officers. Once inside their cabin, the two deputies helped Duck stow her luggage under the seat. As the train whistled a final time, with a jerk, it began to roll forward.

While they waited for the conductor to come check their tickets, Duck examined the box Hermia had given her. Setting it upon her knees, she unfolded the cardboard flaps, and brought a hand to her lips when she saw her mother's artifacts and the two photographs.

"Miss Bottoms, who gave these to you?" Duck asked as she turned toward Hermia, who had taken a seat next to her.

"They were delivered to the district office this morning with a note saying that a neighbor of yours wanted these to be given to you in person. The note didn't say who had made the request, though."

"Oh, I see," Duck smiled faintly. It had to have been Fakir.

She traced the edge of the frame housing the picture of her and her mother, touching each of the items in the box lovingly before stopping at a small necklace case. Picking up the jewelry case and opening it, the garnet jewel of the familiar necklace greeted Duck with a warm crimson gleam as it caught the morning light shining in through the train window.

"It's beautiful."

Duck looked up to see Hermia smiling at her.

"Ah, thank you," the young woman blushed. "It's not mine, though; it belonged to my mother. She left it to me when she passed away many years ago. It was very precious to her."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Hermia said sincerely. "Why don't you put it on? I think it would look wonderful on you."

Duck's brows furrowed. "But it belonged to Ma; it wouldn't be right for me to wear it," she said, her eyes shifting away.

Hermia shook her head. "I think she would love for you to wear it. It must contain many good memories if she treasured it so much."

"Ah, but—" Duck began to stammer, when to everyone's surprise, Lysander broke into the conversation with a gruff but gentle voice, "Hermia's right; it's a shame to hide such a beautiful thing away inside of a box." He bowed his head in embarrassment, blushing slightly.

Duck looked back down at the pendant, and after a final moment of hesitation, lifted the chain from the box, and with Hermia's help, fastened the clasp around her neck.

"It really does look wonderful on you," Hermia said, admiring the necklace on Duck.

Looking at her reflection in the cabin window while wearing the necklace, Duck thought she could see her mother's shadow gazing back at her.

Outside the window, the cityscape gave way to rows of trees and farmlands. As Duck watched the telegraph poles pass by, the train carried her farther and farther away from her longtime home, to which she would never return. Duck once again felt a deep pang of sadness, and her eyes became moist.

Reaching for the pendant at her neck and touching it gently, Duck reminded herself that she still had Miss Edel's letter and her mother's necklace with her, and these mementos would keep her company, even when her loved ones couldn't.

She would dearly miss all of her friends back home, and she still wished she could have gotten to see Fakir one more time, if only to thank him and wish him well before she left. But this was the fate she had chosen willingly, and for the sake of those very same people she cared about.

So, Duck smiled forlornly, sniffling and wiping away the little beads of tears forming at the corners of her eyes, and watched the scenery slip by as she was ferried into the distant unknown.

After a few hours had passed in silence, the train stopped at a small station just past Albany. The station had only one platform, and save for a lone vendor selling roasted chestnuts out of a basket, there was hardly any other soul present.

Seeing the vendor making his way towards them, Hermia turned to Duck, "Would you like to have some roasted chestnuts? It'd be nice for us to have something warm to eat."

"Sure," Duck answered, and Hermia opened the window to call out to the vendor.

Lysander stood up, and said in his low yet soft voice, "I'm going to the washroom. I'll be right back."

He opened the compartment door, but instead of walking out, he took an uneasy step backwards, for there was a gun pointed at his chest.

Hermia turned around and gasped. "Lysander!"

The female deputy tried to stand, her hand reaching for her purse, when the sound of another gun being cocked came from the window. A stunned Duck saw that the chestnut vendor, too, was pointing a revolver at Hermia.

"I don't want any trouble," said a man's calm, soothing voice, one that Duck recognized instantly, making her heart freeze in her chest.

The cabin door was pushed aside fully, revealing Mytho standing there, casting his eyes toward Duck with a disquietingly serene smile. "Please come with me, Miss Stannus, if you don't want these fine deputies to be hurt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Adolph Zukor, founder of Paramount Pictures.
> 
> Thanks once again to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing.


	18. Chapter 18

The bone-chilling cold of New York in the depths of winter penetrated the thin walls of Fakir’s apartment. Yet Fakir hardly seemed to notice the bleak temperature, weary as he was from the previous sleepless night.

Shrugging on his coat, Fakir winced from the pulse of pain induced by the movement. Stoically ignoring the injury in his right hand, he walked out of his apartment and turned around to lock the door.

When Fakir placed his hand into his pocket to retrieve his apartment key, the edge of a forgotten photograph rubbed against his hand. Fakir froze, and gingerly took out the photo, now bent and crinkled, as if to reflect the abuse its owner had recently suffered.

To Fakir, it felt as if it had been a lifetime ago when this image and its cryptic message appeared on his desk in the precinct. Although it had only been a few days, the meaning behind the Greek text and the location of the smoke stacks in the black and white photo both remained a mystery.

Fakir had faced numerous hard facts in the short time since he’d come into possession of the photo. Duck was gone, spirited away by the US Marshal Service for her own safety, and Mytho, his one time best friend, had demonstrated in unequivocal terms his new-found loyalty to the very organization that took his parents’ life.

Memories of Mytho and the flash of the steel stiletto cutting into his flesh made the twinge in Fakir’s hand grow suddenly to an unbearable throb, and Fakir had to grit his teeth to suppress the pain shooting up his arm and penetrating deep into his chest.

Stuffing the photo roughly back into his coat pocket, Fakir made his way to the precinct.

As his feet navigated the familiar journey to the police station, a part of his mind wondered how it was that things ended up this way. Had he not become a police detective so that innocent people could live out their lives and dreams in peace? People like Mytho, who should be dancing under the spotlight, and Duck, who should be walking beside him right now, chattering happily.

But those dreams and lives were no more, having been ruthlessly snuffed out like candlewicks by a black hand. *

 _It’s not fair, it’s not fair…_ Fakir seethed on the inside as a boiling anger festered in his heart, driving him forward and darkening his eyes.

The Corvos would pay for what they had done. Though they would surely use everything at their disposal to stop him, Fakir was resolute, ready to throw his entire being into avenging the wrongs they had committed.

The noisy chatter that had surrounded the 53rd police precinct the past few days had subsided by the time Fakir walked up to its doors, which was more than welcome as far as Fakir was concerned. But even without reporters and photographers present, as soon as Fakir stepped into the precinct he could feel the presence of many pairs of eyes following him.

Making his way through the first floor of the police station, a number of the officers he passed by smiled and nodded at him. One officer, a short little man that Fakir recognized as Johnny from the Robbery division, gave him a thumbs-up from behind the mountain of files he was carrying, and shouted proudly in his high-pitched voice, “You do us proud, Fakir!”

Fakir acknowledged Johnny with a curt nod and made his way up the stairs.

He paused when the hushed conversation of two patrol officers drifted up from the bottom of the stairwell behind him.

“Hmph! Look at that kid,” one of the officers grumbled. “Got a little nick on his hand, and now he thinks he’s some God-damned hero!”

His partner rolled his eyes. “Hey, that’s the new sergeant you’re talkin’ about, buddy. Nick or not, _he_ got himself a promotion.”

The man then glanced up toward Fakir with a conceited sneer and said, “Though from what I hear, that promotion also cost him a girl in the process.”

Fakir’s grip on the stair railing tightened, turning his knuckles white.

As the two men continued to chat among themselves, he forced himself to continue the rest of the climb to the second floor where the familiar “Homicide” division plaque was set at the top of the stairs.

When he entered the office, Fakir was struck by the absence of officers in the usually busy bureau area. Where there would normally be a dozen or so people walking about or working at their desks, fewer than half were present.

The only person Fakir could clearly see was Batson, who was pacing restlessly about in front of Charon’s office. Even the normally diligent Malen was absent from her desk.

 _Was there a meeting that I wasn’t told about?_ Fakir wondered as he made his way to his desk, hat and coat in one arm.

However, when Fakir came up to his desk, he found it empty. The stacks of paperwork and file folders that he had left behind were nowhere to be seen.

Quickly setting his coat and hat aside, Fakir pulled open the drawers, only to find that they had all been emptied as well; in fact, the only thing that appeared to have been left behind was an old fountain pen and two paper clips in the central drawer.

Slamming the drawer shut, Fakir stood up and marched towards Charon’s office. Though he already had his suspicions as to why his desk had been vacated, he was determined to find out what had happened during his absence from the captain himself.

But Fakir was stopped by Batson, who, as soon as he saw Fakir striding towards Charon’s office, rushed over and blocked the young man’s path.

“Fakir! Wait! Wait!”

“I need to talk to the captain, Batson! I need to know why my desk has been cleared out!”

Fakir made to move past Batson, but the smaller man moved with him and placed his hands on Fakir’s arm in an attempt to pull him away from Charon’s office.

“Yes, yes, about that…well, later when the captain has time _I’m sure_ he’ll talk to you about it!” Batson said, in an effort to placate Fakir, “But right now, he’s asked that no one disturb him!”

Still, Fakir couldn’t be dissuaded. Brushing Batson’s hands aside, he demanded, “Is Charon in his office right now or not?”

“Yes, but like I was sayin’, he’s asked that no one disturb him. If you’ll just wait a little bit—!”

“This _can’t_ wait!”

Fakir stepped quickly to the side and got behind Batson, and was about to reached for the doorknob when the door suddenly opened on its own.

“I had asked not to be disturbed—!” Charon’s haggard voice began, but when he saw who was causing the ruckus the captain blinked in surprise. “Fakir, you’re back already?”

“I decided to come back early,” Fakir explained briefly. “What happened to my files and documents, Charon? When I came in, they were all gone!”

Charon sighs deeply, running his hand down his face, his other hand buried in a trouser pocket, and Fakir noticed for the first time how exhausted the captain looked. His tie was loosened, and there were heavy bags under the captain’s eyes; like Fakir, he looked like he had not gotten any sleep the night before.

“Right now is not a good time to discuss this.”

“Why?” Fakir persisted, but before Charon had a chance to answer, a sharp, muffled sob from inside Charon’s office drew away Fakir’s attention.

Looking inside, Fakir was shocked to see a good portion of the Homicide division personnel sitting or standing inside Charon’s office. There were at least four people crammed into the tiny space, and in the center of it all was Malen, their composite artist, crying as she held a damp handkerchief to her face.

“Malen?” Bewildered, Fakir looked to his superior and mentor. “Charon, what’s going on?”

Charon gently pulled Fakir aside as he closed the office door. In a hushed and weary voice, the captain began, “Fakir, have you ever wondered how is that the Corvos were able to discover the identity of Miss Stannus?”

“Of course I have. Wait; don't tell me it’s…!”

Fakir couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence, and instead looked at the closed office door, eyes wide with disbelief.

Charon nodded his head wearily. “I’m afraid it’s true: Malen is the Corvo informant.”

Sighing, the captain began recounting the events from two days prior. “It’d been on my mind that someone in our midst had been turning over information to the Corvos. First Alphonse, then Miss Stannus… As much as I hated to admit it, it was the most likely scenario.

“However, I only began to suspect Malen two nights ago, when I saw her leaving the precinct in a hurry. I thought, initially, that Malen had forgotten something in the office and was coming back to retrieve it. But when I entered my office, I thought it’d be best to check the files on Miss Stannus, just in case.

“What I found was that the pages in her file regarding her new address and identity had clearly been handled by someone other than myself, and had been reinserted into the folder in a hurry.

“I decided to call Iggy, our latent prints man. He’s a good man, Iggy, and a damn good technician besides. Even though it was Christmas Eve, he agreed to come in, and got a good quality thumbprint off one of the sheets of paper from the file. It took him all day and all night, but he was able to dust, process, and match the print to one on record: that of Malen’s.”

Charon’s gaze turned back to his office. “After I got the confirmation from Iggy, early this morning I called Malen in, to confront her about the print that we had found, but she broke down before I barely started questioning her.”

Here Charon sighed again, shaking his head. “Poor girl. It seems the reason she started shuttling information to the Corvos was to pay off a large debt her father owed. Apparently his art supply business had come under hard times three years ago, and he needed a loan to keep the business afloat. The banks denied him a loan, citing poor management, so he had to go to the Corvos, who charged him 50% interest per annum.

“When the business didn’t rebound and he was unable to repay the loan, they started harassing him incessantly. His health quickly declined from the stress, and he had to be taken to the hospital following a stroke last year. When Malen was visiting her father in the hospital one day, one of the Corvo men came by and offered her a proposition: help pay off her father’s loan by ferrying information from the police to the mob.

“Malen wanted to refuse, but seeing her father’s failing health and knowing that the Corvos would continue to harass her and her family until the money was repaid, she reluctantly agreed.

“When Miss Stannus’s case appeared, they made her another offer: if she could give them the name of the witness, half of her father’s debt would be nullified. Malen had no way to do that, as I carried Miss Stannus’s files on me at all times, so she wasn’t involved in the sabotage of that particular fact.

“But then, a few days ago they gave her a new proposition, one that, dare I say, she could not turn down. They wanted her to tell them when, where, and how Miss Stannus was going to leave New York City, and if she could accurately give them that information, they would completely forgive her father’s debt.”

Looking at his subordinate, Charon could see the fear dawning in Fakir’s eyes, and the captain grimaced. “Unfortunately, by the time Malen had told me that, she’d already gotten a hold of Miss Stannus’s travel plans and passed them onto the Corvos. She managed to enter my office by placing a small pebble in the corner of the doorframe, so that the office door did not lock as it should have after I stepped out. She then opened the cabinet with the common key that was shared between the various Homicide filing cabinets.”

“The Marshals need to be notified of this!” Fakir exclaimed.

“I already have done that,” said Charon, “I telephoned the Marshals’ Service not half an hour ago, and advised them to move Miss Stannus to a different location using a different mode of transportation as soon as possible. But in hindsight, I should’ve confronted Malen sooner; then we would not have lost a whole day’s time. I just hope the Marshals take this seriously and act quickly to place Miss Stannus in a new safe house.”

Just then the telephone in Charon’s office started to ring. Stepping inside the office, Charon picked up the phone while the officers inside quietly led Malen out, having concluded the interview.

As Malen walked shakily out of the office, she briefly met Fakir’s gaze; the remorse and despair Fakir perceived from her made him look away. Though she was guilty of conspiring with criminals, Fakir could not in good conscience direct his anger at the young artist, who had been but a victim of the true enemy.

Instead, the rage he felt was directed at Domenico Corvo, the man responsible for creating the monstrosity that had—and continued—to consume the lives of those around him, and at Mytho, for aligning himself with the man who perpetuated so many evils.

“Hello? Is this the New York 53rd precinct? Hello?”

A loud female voice snapped Fakir’s thoughts away from the Corvo clan, back to the precinct. With the captain’s office now empty save for Charon, Fakir walked inside to stand next to the captain who answered, “Yes, this is Captain Sideros of the 53rd precinct. Whom am I speaking to?”

“—is Hermia Bottoms, Special Deputy with the Marshals Service!” Hermia’s voice replied, the first part of her sentence drowned out by the sound of a train whistle. “Miss Stannus, she’s been taken!”

“What?!” Charon exclaimed.

His eyes flitted to Fakir, the young officer standing stock still, his expression one of disbelief and horror.

Turning back to the phone, Charon demanded, “What happened?”

In a tiny telegram office next to an equally tiny train station in upstate New York, Hermia stood with the receiver jammed against her head, her other hand covering her ear from the noise of the passing train while the hapless telephone operator helped her hold the mouthpiece aloft to her height. Though Fakir and Charon could hear her clear as day, the sound in Hermia’s receiver buzzed and hissed, and she shouted back in an attempt to talk above the roar of the locomotive.

“The train we were on had stopped at a small station called Falle*, near Albany, when we were ambushed. My partner, Lysander, was going to go use the washroom, but as he was exiting the cabin, a man with a gun appeared. He had his gun pointed at us, and an accomplice was pointing a second gun at us through the window. The first man, he was dressed all in white; he asked Miss Stannus to come with him, and I—”

Here Hermia’s voice faltered as she recalled Duck quietly raising from her seat and walking over to the white-clad gunman.

“…I asked her not to go, but Miss Stannus, she asked him to not hurt us and left the train with him. The second gunman stayed behind with his gun pointed at us until the other man and Miss Stannus exited the carriage, and the train had begun to pull away from the station. Lysander went to stop the train, and I stayed behind to see where they went.

“I saw the three of them get into an old Model T parked next to the station and speed off down a country road. The car’s license plate was blacked out, so I couldn’t get a plate number.”

Charon shook his head, aghast. “Incredible… a kidnapping in broad daylight, on a coach train, no less!”

“Lysander and I are working with the local police to try to track down the Model T. But there’s something that I think you should see. I found it in the hallway after Miss Stannus was taken.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a book. The title is _A Study in Scarlet_ , and there’s a note attached to it, addressed to someone named Fakir in the 53rd precinct.”

* * *

By early evening, a US Marshals Representative arrived with the book Hermia had found. He introduced himself as Supervisory Deputy Marshal H.C. Bookman, and was the direct supervisor to Special Deputy Bottoms and Deputy Lysander.

After the brief introduction, the three men retreated to the captain’s office, and after Bookman had shrugged off the light dusting of snow from his coat, the Marshal opened the large paper bag he had brought with him to reveal a simple, red hard bound book.

Besides a dusting of black fingerprint powder, the book was in pristine condition. A length of twine tightly bound the book shut. Tucked under the twine was a card with the words: “Fakir, New York 53rd Police Precinct” typewritten on it. A pale feather, looking conspicuously like a bookmark, could be seen protruding from the front pages of the book.

Deputy Bookman, a squat man with large eyes and a raspy voice, explained, “We checked the book for prints immediately after it came into our possession. But other than Hermia’s prints, we didn’t find any. We also did a cursory examination of the book and the feather inside, and from what we can tell, it’s a duck feather. This could well be a hidden message, given the victim’s identity.

“But there are no visible markings or notes inside the book. We thought it would be a good idea to bring it here and see if there’s anything you can tell us, since those behind this crime had specifically addressed this to you, Mr. Romeiras,” he concluded, looking pointedly at Fakir.

Fakir said nothing, but even without having heard Hermia’s description of the man who’d kidnapped Duck, he knew the culprit who left the book behind could be none other than Mytho.

Donning a pair of cotton gloves to avoid contaminating the evidence, he gingerly untied the twine and opened the book to the title page where the duck feather rested. Working his way through the book, he scanned the text, looking for any markings. But just like Bookman had said, the pages were clean and neat, with no visible markings present.

By the time he’d reached the back cover, not a single clue had jumped out at him, making Fakir sigh in frustration.

Stripping off the cotton gloves, Fakir’s hand reached into his coat pocket where the photograph from Mytho laid.

A Study in Scarlet _was the novel that I was reading when I first met Mytho,_ Fakir recalled. _Is this another clue from Mytho, so that I can find him on the Day of Epiphany? But what is the clue within this book? What is he trying to get at?_

“Well? Have you found something?”

Bookman’s impatient voice distracted Fakir from his reveries and the dark haired detective shook his head. “No, I…” Fakir’s hand moved out of his pocket, careful to leave the photograph untouched, “…none of it makes any sense to me.”

“Hmph!” Bookman sneered. “That’s what I thought! You know what this really is, gentlemen? It’s mockery! They’re trying to add insult to injury, so to speak,” Bookman said, gesturing at Fakir’s bandaged right hand. “While this book might be useless, I think we still stand a fair chance at catching these criminals. I’ve ordered checkpoints to be set up at all major thoroughfares in the area where the kidnapping occurred. Disused farmhouses and barns in a ten mile radius will also be searched, in case they try to hole up for the night somewhere.”

“But what if they change modes of transportation?” Charon asked cautiously.

Bookman shrugged, picking up his coat from the coat rack. “They were seen taking off in a Model T, Captain Sideros. They couldn’t have traveled very far in such a vehicle.* Most likely we will find them hiding in a barn somewhere before tomorrow.”

As Deputy Bookman walked over to gather the book, Fakir stepped forward. “Wait! Leave the book with us. There may yet be something in there!”

“Fakir could have a point, Deputy Bookman,” said Charon. “Only the outer cover has been dusted for prints so far, right? Maybe if we dust the entire book, there’s a slight chance something might be there,” he suggested halfheartedly.

Bookman chuckled and cocked a crooked eyebrow at the older man. “Do you really think so, Captain? Very well. If you insist, I’ll leave it with you, Captain Sideros, for the time being.”

To Fakir, Bookman said, “However, I doubt anything useful will come from it. A good detective should not waste his time on red herrings. I know you’ve worked hard on this case, young man, but it will do you good to keep yourself grounded in hard facts.”

With those words, Deputy Bookman took his leave of Fakir and Charon.

As soon as the door closed behind Bookman, Fakir spun around and reached for the book. But to his surprise, Charon scooped up the novel and, turning away from Fakir, placed the book back into the evidence bag that it had arrived in.

“Charon, wait, I need that book—!”

“Fakir, you are no longer working in Homicide,” Charon said sternly. He locked eyes with Fakir, and said more forcibly, “This is no longer your case!”

Fakir’s outstretched hand dropped back to his side, his eyes hidden by the long strands of his bangs. “And that’s why my desk has been emptied, isn’t it?”

He stared accusingly at the older officer, who sighed silently and shoved the book into a desk drawer.

“Listen, Fakir, you can’t just do as you wish!” the captain said exasperatedly. “The Marshals are the ones handling this case now. You can’t just run off with their evidence! We have rules and regulations—”

Before he could finish, the angry younger detective slammed his fist onto the desk, rattling it and startling Charon.

“What rule is there when the mob runs half this city?!” Fakir screamed. “The Corvos can already do whatever they want and get away with it! And now you’re going to let the Marshals walk all over you too—!”

SMACK!

Charon’s slap sent Fakir lurching backwards, causing him to stumble into a chair.

“That’s enough!” the captain shouted. “If you keep going like this, you’ll end up like Joe Petrosino, Fakir!* This case is taking over your mind! It will be the death of you!”

Fakir listened to these words with a stunned, half-dazed look in his eyes. Never would he have thought the captain would raise his hand to strike him, or denounce his efforts to bring the Corvos to justice.

If Charon would not help him, then there was no one left who could. Without the book, he had no clue to Duck’s whereabouts, she could be anywhere; she might even be…

At that moment, Fakir remembered the photo lying crumbled in his pocket.

Reaching for it, Fakir picked himself back up, and without a word to Charon, stormed out of the captain’s office. If no one would help him, then he would find Duck on his own!

Fakir staggered into the dim, chilly, almost deserted streets. He still had this one clue. _Maybe it’s somewhere in New York; maybe Mytho had brought Duck back…_

Fueled by these illogical thoughts and false hopes, Fakir frantically searched the darkened horizons for shapes that fit with what was depicted in the photo, holding the photograph up like it was some sort of talisman.

But it was a futile venture, as the evening dusk robbed him of sight and the interspersed lights and shadows of the city befuddled his mind. The steam emanating from his own breath and rising from the manholes formed a cloud of fog that seemed to envelop him like a labyrinth, disorienting him further.

Weariness and cold gradually began robbing his limbs of their strength, and adrift in the endless night, dark thoughts rose up unabated in Fakir’s mind.

Images of red hair, stained crimson by blood and lifeless dull blue eyes flitted through Fakir’s mind, making his stomach turn. The morbid thoughts haunted Fakir as he blindly made his way through the streets.

He had no idea how long he wandered, but eventually a familiar shape materialized out of the darkness of the night. Fakir looked up, and saw the now familiar Kotin Pointe Shoe shop sign.

“Are you still looking for Duck?”

Fakir spun around at the voice, and found Edel, poised and composed as ever, standing quietly behind him.

“I…I can’t find her, not this time…”

The admission of guilt ate into Fakir. He had once promised Edel that he would find Duck no matter what. But his confidence had been shattered, leaving a defeated man overcome by an impossible task.

Edel closed her eyes. “All stories desire to march forward, though they cannot see their destination. Which step will you take next?”

Confused, Fakir shook his head. “I don’t know…I don’t know what I should do next,” he admitted wearily.

“So you have lost your way,” Edel said, opening her eyes once again to meet the gaze of the distraught young man. “Perhaps another can help set you on the path again?”

“But who…?” Fakir began, but Edel gently cut him off.

“Someone with a different perspective: a different set of eyes, and skills, and mind.”

“A different perspective? A different set of skills…” Fakir repeated Edel’s words to himself.

Thoughts of a bespectacled journalist surfaced from the sea of his mind. Besides himself and Charon, Autor was the only other person with extensive knowledge about the Corvos. What’s more, he had managed to uncover everything that he knew on his own, using the skills he had available to him.

Though Fakir disliked Autor’s haughty personality, he was genuinely impressed by the man’s talent as a journalist. The reporter had an eye for examining evidence, pulling out minute clues, and making connections others might overlook; they were crucial skills needed for finding the cryptic clues hidden in the items Mytho had left behind.

Though it was just a hunch, Fakir felt that something inside the hardbound novel was connected to the location in the earlier photograph he’d received. Having had some time now to calm down and think, Fakir wondered if the duck feather left with the book was less of a provocation, and more of a statement: _If you want to find Duck, you must uncover the clues hidden in this book._

If Fakir wanted to find Duck, in other words, he would have to find Mytho first. That made it more urgent than ever for him to identify the location Mytho hinted at in the photo before the appointed time of January 6th, now less than two weeks away.

But that copy of _A Study in Scarlet_ was in a drawer in Charon’s office. The thought of having to return to the precinct to face Charon again brought the rapid stream of thoughts to a grinding halt, as Fakir recalled with shame his argument with the captain.

Even if Charon had refused to give him the book, who was Fakir to accuse Charon of withholding information from him, when Fakir himself had never divulged the existence of the photograph Mytho had sent him? By demanding the book, Fakir had not only spoken words that he wished he could take back, he had exposed his own hypocrisy.

It was clear to Fakir now: as much as he wanted to solve this case by himself, this puzzle was not something that could be resolved by the efforts of one man. If he truly wanted to save Duck and bring her home, he knew now what he had to do.

Edel, who’d been silently watching Fakir until now, said softly, “You have come to a resolution?”

Fakir nodded firmly.

To the pale woman, he said solemnly, “I can’t guarantee that I will bring Duck back this time, but I swear to you, I will do everything that I possibly can to get her home."

With that, he turned and started running back towards the precinct.

Watching the black haired detective disappear into the night, Edel closed her eyes and smiled.

“May those who accept their fate be granted happiness; may those who defy it be granted glory.”

* * *

By the time Fakir reached the old apartment building housing the 53rd precinct, the snow-encrusted streets were deserted.

Hoping that the captain was still in his office, Fakir walked into the precinct, ignoring the curious looks of the night shift as he made his way up the creaking staircase to the second floor.

With the intense activity in the last 48 hours, most of the other detectives had returned home for some well-earned rest. The two regular night shift officers were also absent, most likely having been called out to a case somewhere.

The entire second floor was empty, and only a few of the electric ceiling lights had been left on. At the far end of the room, where the captain’s office was located, a bright orange glow could still be seen through the frosted glass panel.

Fakir walked quietly up to the office and stopped in front of the door. Holding his hand up to knock, Fakir hesitated. What would Charon say when Fakir revealed he’d been withholding information from him?

The thought of Charon’s disappointment pained Fakir, but he knew that even if that was so, he had to follow through. It was time to honor all of the faith and trust that Charon had put in him over the years, and come clean with his secrets.

And so, with a deep breath, Fakir lightly knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Fakir opened the door and Charon looked up from what he had been examining in his hands. To Fakir’s surprise, it was the book from Mytho, which Charon now placed down on the desk.

“Fakir?” Charon evidently was surprised as well.

But his surprise only grew when Fakir silently walked into the office and placed a crinkled photograph in front of Charon, next to the book.

“There are some things that I… I haven’t told you about, Charon,” Fakir began.

Charon’s gaze traveled from Fakir to the photo and back. Finally, he said in a gentle, fatherly tone, “Sit down, son.”

Taking the seat across from Charon, Fakir recounted how he came into the possession of the photo, of his boyhood growing up with Mytho, and his discovery that Mytho was the Principe they had been searching for.

Many times over the length of Fakir’s narration, Charon shook his head in disbelief at the series of coincidental events leading up to the current crisis. But he allowed Fakir to take his time, only interrupting occasionally for quick clarifications.

As the clock on the wall clicked to 2 o’clock, the two men sat wordlessly in their chairs, their gazes focused on the unlikely pill of evidence before them.

“I’m sorry, Charon,” Fakir said quietly, closing his eyes. “I…I thought I could find Mytho on my own, when I should’ve told you this earlier.”

Charon looked up at the young man seated away from him. It was plainly apparent that Fakir was worn down to the bone from the events of the past 24 hours. The sorry sight of the formerly spirited young man, who was now injured, exhausted and grim, sent a jolt of anguish through Charon’s heart.

Though he never married, Charon had always considered the officers who worked with him to be a part of his family. Fakir, in particular, was like a son to him; not only because of the history they shared, but also that Charon saw his younger self in the junior detective: driven, idealistic, and stubborn.

However, years of grinding police work wear away at the sharpness and enthusiasm that defined many young detectives, leaving them jaded and apathetic. Studying Fakir now, Charon wondered if this weariness had also found its way into this young detective. Yet, what Fakir said next surprised the senior detective.

“Even so…” Fakir inhaled a shuddering breath, and then in a resolute voice, he said, “I have to find Mytho. It’s the only way to find Duck. And in order to do that, I need that book, Charon!”

“You are dead set on continuing this course then?” Charon furrowed his brows. “Fakir, I warn you once again: this is no longer your case. If you persist like this, you are putting your badge on the line.”

“What good would my badge be if I can’t even protect an innocent bystander like Duck?” Fakir retorted passionately. “If I can’t even do that, then I have no use for this badge!”

Charon stood up, scraping his chair back and walked around the desk towards Fakir. The young detective tensed, fearing that the captain was about to throw him out. But instead the captain picked up the book and held it out to Fakir.

“I’ve been thinking after you left,” the captain said wistfully, “and I’ve asked myself the same question. Rather than letting it sit forgotten on a shelf somewhere in the archives, I think it’s better that you have a shot at it.”

Fakir stood up and accepted the book from the captain with a respectful nod.

Charon smiled. “It appears I was also wrong. Putting protocol before saving an innocent life from peril. Perhaps I am getting old, and have started to forget why we wear our badges.”

The captain placed his hand on Fakir’s shoulder and gave him a firm squeeze. “But you, Fakir, have not. Good luck, and I wish you good hunting.”

* * *

In a first class carriage, Duck watched as the clouds overhead, painted in the pinks, oranges, and lavenders of sunset. The rhythmic clacking of the train would normally have lulled her to sleep by now, but the tension in both her body and mind kept her wide awake.

After Mytho had appeared armed with a gun in front of the cabin she had been sharing with Hermia and Lysander, Duck had felt her heart sank into her stomach. Things had only got worse when the chestnut seller turned out to be an accomplice to the white-clad mobster and had threatened the deputies with a gun.

Duck’s mind drifted to the memories from only hours earlier, when her quiet journey had been brought to an abrupt end.

“Please come with me, Miss Stannus, if you don't want these fine deputies to be hurt," Mytho said with a disturbingly calm smile.

Duck gulped. She knew what Mytho was capable of; after all, she had seen it with her own eyes.

 _I don’t have a choice_ , Duck thought, her eyes flitting to Hermia, then Lysander, both of whom were nervously watching the two gunmen. _I don’t want any more people to get hurt. If I go with him, then he’ll let Miss Bottoms and Mr. Lysander go._

With those thoughts in mind, Duck stood up and took a step towards Mytho.

“Wait! Miss Stannus, don’t!” Hermia cried and tried to reach for Duck.

But Mytho raised his arm so that the barrow of the gun touched Lysander’s chest. Hermia froze, seeing her partner in imminent danger.

“It’s all right, Miss Bottoms,” Duck said quietly and smiled a little at the tall deputy.

To Mytho, Duck said, “Please, if I come with you, please don’t hurt them.”

Mytho nodded, and though Duck’s legs were trembling, she closed the distance between herself and the mobster.

As soon as Duck was in arm’s reach, Mytho grabbed her hand and dashed towards the carriage exit. Duck had no choice but to keep pace as the two of them made it off the train just as the locomotive’s whistle blew and the train began to lurch forward.

Glancing back, Duck saw the chestnut seller sprint away from the window and dash into the driver seat of a Ford Model T that had been hidden in the bushes next to the tracks.

Duck soon found herself shoved into the back of the car, and had to brace herself as the car was put sharply into gear and driven away at top speed down a dirt road.

However, the car did not travel far. After driving for about fifteen minutes, the car pulled up to a farm and came to a stop outside a horse stable. Duck looked out the side window and saw a Gray touring car parked inside the stable.*

As the horses looked on, the driver quickly exited the car and discarded his hat and coat, tossing them over the wall of a box stall, before picking up a spare set of clothes from inside an empty stall.

Meanwhile, Mytho wordlessly led Duck out of the old Model T, and after discarding and replacing his own coat and hat, got into the new car. The driver had finished his transformation by applying a thin mustache to his upper lip. Once he made certain the mustache was in place, the man hopped into the driver’s seat of the new car.

All this took less than two minutes from beginning to end, and as Duck looked on in confusion from the back seat, the car leisurely pulled out of the stable and continued onto a main road.

“Where are you taking me?” she whispered, but a sharp look from the driver through the backseat mirror made Duck shrink back into her seat.

A hand touched her shoulder, and Duck whipped around to see the hand belonged to Mytho, who was sitting next to her. “You’ll know soon,” the capo said placidly.

Duck swallowed, and spent the remainder of the hour-long drive in silence.

Eventually, the car pulled up to a small, country train station. Duck obsequiously followed Mytho out of the car.

The driver exited, and acting nothing like a criminal on the run, casually took out two suitcases from the front seat. He handed the larger of the suitcases to Mytho, and placing the other in front of Duck.

“Go ahead, take it; it’s for you,” Mytho smiled.

Duck hesitated, but seeing the cold glare from the driver, she gingerly picked up the suitcase. Mytho took her arm, and looking like a perfectly normal couple, led her towards the station.

The rest of their journey had been uneventful as they boarded the next train that stopped at the station. The conductor led them to their first class cabin and asked them to enjoy their trip, to which Mytho replied with a pleasant “Thank you”.

Once left alone in their cabin, Duck sat nervously in the plush, velvet seat, watching Mytho’s every move as he took off his hat and seemed to be settling comfortably in his seat.

Feeling her eyes on him, Mytho smiled at her and said, “I apologize for the abruptness of this trip. I took the liberty of packing some clothing and toiletries for you in advance, since your own were left behind. I hope they are to your liking.”

Duck blinked, and then looked at the brown leather suitcase by her feet. Opening it cautiously, she found two sets of clothes and a small toiletry set, which contained a toothbrush, comb, and other various items that a lady might find herself in need of on a cross-country trip.

Duck frowned. This made no sense. Instead of killing her, why was Mytho being so considerate towards her?

But before she could ask him, Mytho stood up and opened the cabin door. “There’s some business I need to take care of. I will be back shortly.”

Looking back at Duck, Mytho cautioned, “Please don’t try to run away. My associates and I have booked this entire carriage, and they may not treat you too kindly should you attempt to escape.”

The door then closed behind Mytho, leaving Duck alone in the cabin.

Back in the present, Duck sat with her knees drawn up to her chin as she cast her eyes to the darkening sky.

She had long wondered if and what would happen if she were to meet Mytho again. Her first encounter with Mytho had painted him in the role of a killer, and while reminders of that would never leave Duck’s mind, now that they had been alone together, she was completely taken aback by his charming, considerate attitude towards her.

Recalling what Fakir had told her, she knew Mytho was once a sweet, kind boy. _Is this the real Mytho?_ Duck wondered. _But he’s also a killer_ … _Does that mean that one side of Mytho is fake? Which is the real Mytho?_

Was he acting this way towards her because of some ulterior motive? But what would he gain from that? She was just a shop girl, and as a prime witness, she was also a threat to Mytho’s organization. If anything, she had expected Mytho to shoot her on the spot when he first appeared in her cabin.

Why, then? Why had he not only kept her alive, but had taken the trouble to tend to her needs?

Lost in thought, Duck jumped when the door to their cabin opened and Mytho stepped back in.

Seeing her startled expression, Mytho quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, did I scare you?”

Duck said nothing but looked away.

Mytho took a seat across from her and Duck mustered up the courage to speak. “What are you…planning to do with me?”

Mytho smiled at her reassuringly. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

When Duck looked at him dubiously, Mytho’s smile deepened, and Duck couldn’t help but feel that this smile was genuine. “I swear, on your mother’s memories, that I would never hurt you, Duck.”

“Ma…” Duck’s eyes widened. “So you really did know Ma!”

“She told you about me?” Mytho wondered.

Duck shook her head, sending strands of red hair swaying from side to side. “No. But when I ran into you at the opera, you said Ma’s name. Then later, Mr. Kotin said you were one of Ma’s students, and used to come see her at the shop, and—”

Here Duck abruptly clamped her mouth shut, fearing she had said too much. The last thing she wanted to do was to drag Mr. Kotin and the people at the pointe shoe shop into this.

But this information seemed to instill a change in Mytho. The congenial cheerfulness in his expression gave way to sadness, and he said in a quiet voice, “Yes, I knew your mother. Elsa, she was…”

He paused. “…She was a good friend of mine.”

Pushing a rueful smile to his lips, he met Duck’s eyes and said, “Although we never met in person, your mother told me a lot about you. She said the two of you looked very much alike, and she was right. With that necklace on, you look just like her.”

Duck touched the garnet pendant at her throat. Hearing those words, the fear that had been gripping her loosened its hold a little. Tentatively, Duck asked, “So… how did you meet Ma?”

Mytho gazed outside the train window, where the stars began to appear in the evening sky. “It’s a story from a long time ago, when I was a different man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The “black hand” is a reference to the Italian Mafia. During the 19th and early 20th century, one of the ways the mafia would extort money from victims is by printing a black hand on letters sent to their victims. Eventually, the press adopted the term “black hand” as a general term for organized crime. 
> 
> * Falle, New York doesn’t exist (though Wikipedia tells me there is a place called Falle in Ethiopia). Rather, the word “falle” is German for “trap”, which given what befell Duck, is a fitting name for the place where she gets kidnapped.
> 
> * The top speed of a Ford Model T is 45 mph, which explains why Deputy Bookman is so confident the kidnappers wouldn’t get very far. What he failed to consider is that there’s no rule that says gangsters are limited to using only one car, or for that matter, taking the train.
> 
> * Joe Petrosino was an NYPD police officer who was killed in 1909 while fighting organize crime. He was the first Italian speaking NYPD police officer, and before his death was the head of a corps of Italian-American detectives tasked with dealing with organized crime in the city. He was assassinated in Palermo, Italy while collecting evidence needed to deport known Italian criminals who were living in the United States. When he went to meet a supposed informant he was shot and killed.
> 
> * The Gray was a car model made by the Gray Motor Corporation, and was manufactured between 1922-1926. The president of Gray Motor Corp., Frank L. Klingensmith, had worked in the Ford Motor Company, and he built the Gray to compete with the Ford Model T. Both cars were considered economical, low price cars for their day, with the Gray priced at $490, and the Model T at approximately $300.
> 
> In case anyone’s wondering how Mytho had time to plant the book while running off with Duck, he planted the book before confronting the Marshals. Also, if you’re curious what Bookman’s initials (H.C.) stand for, well, think about which canon character he’s named after, and what that character is well known for. ;)
> 
> And lastly, "thank you" to Tomoyo Ichijouji for being a great beta and proofreader!


	19. Chapter 19

“All right everyone, settle down. Today we will be announcing the result of yesterday’s quarterly evaluation,” said Paolo, the co-director of the Crown Dance Studio, as he walked into the practice room.

In front of him sat groups of young dancers, chattering and giggling quietly amongst themselves, as they awaited their placements to be announced. In the back of the group, Mytho, sitting with the handful of male students, was silent, but the eager anticipation in his eyes mirrored their enthusiasm.

As an amateur dancer from a small town in Pennsylvania, he was going face the results of the first major test that he had to pass if he wanted to become a professional dancer. Having practiced on his own for many years, it was a dream come true when, three months ago, he found himself in front of the Crown Dance Studio.

He was placed into the Intermediate Class, which was a significant accomplishment, but Mytho knew that as a student, the small savings he inherited from the orphanage director wouldn’t last long. He was determined to make it into the Advanced Class, thereby opening the way to a career in dance, as soon as possible.

He had practiced hard, day and night, for the last three months. Today’s evaluation was the moment of truth, and Mytho would soon know if his efforts had paid off.

“We will start first with the Advanced Class. Come up to the front of the room once your name has been called. Julie Kent, Katherine Williams, Sarah Lane…” One by one, the names were called out.

When Paolo reached the bottom of the list and the class clapped to congratulate the dancers, Mytho’s heart sank. After everyone had been assigned their rankings and class had started, Mytho approached Paolo and Paulamoni.

“Excuse me, Mr. Paolo?”

The broad-shouldered man and his wife turned to the pale haired young man, who said, “Excuse me, sir; could you tell me why I didn’t make the Advanced Class?”

Paulo smiled at Mytho sympathetically. “You have a lot of talent and potential, Mytho, but your form is still lacking. Because of that, we felt it was too early to place you in the Advanced Class at this time.”

“Then please tell me how I can improve. I’ll practice hard, I swear!” Mytho exclaimed.

Sighing softly, Paulamoni said patiently, “Form is a combination of technique and emotion, Mytho. It’s not something you can force yourself to perfect overnight. ”

“But it is something that can be taught,” interrupted a voice with a light Irish accent.

The two instructors turn around, and Mytho saw the face of a woman with striking auburn hair and azure-colored eyes. She wore a garnet pendant embellished with gold, partially concealed by her white leotard. A thin pink shawl was wrapped around her waist, accentuating her slim figure.

Most of all, Mytho was struck most by the gentle expression on her face as she turned to Paulamoni and said, “Form takes time and effort to learn properly, but like all things, with patience and dedication it can be mastered.”

To Mytho, the woman said, “I’m sorry, I overheard your conversation. Your name is Mytho, right? I’m one of the Advanced Class instructors. Like Paulo had said, I see a lot of potential in you. If you don’t mind staying after class, I would be happy to show you how you can perfect your form.”

“Are you sure about that?” Paolo rubbed his chin. “Don’t you also have to work at the point shoe shop after teaching? And what about Duck? Are you sure you will be able to manage all that?”

The auburn-haired woman smiled at them, and nodded. “I’ll talk to Mr. Kotin to move my shift back a little, and he doesn’t mind having Duck with me in the shop.”

Just as Mytho was trying to fathom the idea of a duck waddling around in a pointe shoe store, the Advanced Class instructor turned back to him, and her words snapped him out of his reveries.

“Would 4-5 in the afternoon on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays be all right for you, Mytho?” she paused, and modestly added, “If you are interested, of course. It’ll be on my own time and I won’t charge you anything, if that worries you.”

Mytho shook his head, “No! Er, I mean, yes! It would be a great help to have your tutelage, Miss…”

The woman smiled, and shook hands with her new student. “Please, call me Elsa, and I look forward to having you in my class someday, Mytho.”

* * *

Outside the train window the unspoiled night sky was dotted with millions of tiny points of light.

Mytho, gazing upon the canvas of stars, then turned toward Duck and said, “That was how I first met Elsa, your mother.”

“Did you get into the Advanced Class afterward?” Duck asked, her curiosity loosening the anxious quiver in her voice from earlier as she gradually relaxed in Mytho’s presence.

“Yes, I did, with your mother’s help and tutelage.” Mytho’s smile deepened as he recalled memories of Elsa nudging his arms and feet into their proper position, often working into the evening hours. “But beyond teaching me, Elsa also made sure I took proper care of myself. There were times when I was so caught up with practicing that I forgot to eat, and would feel lightheaded during class. Elsa noticed, and she made sure I would at least have an apple before we started practice in the afternoon. She’d also remind me to do extra stretches so that I didn’t hurt myself from all the extra training I’ve done outside of class.

“The few weeks before the next assessment were nerve-racking, and I was fraught with anxiety that I might not make the cut again. But Elsa believed in me, and helped to reassure me that my goal was not out of my reach.”

Mytho silently recalled his younger self, sitting in his practice clothes, huddled below the practice barre as Elsa sat next to him, her hand on his shoulder. “She’d remind me of everything that I’ve done and how far I’ve improved. And she was right. I was capable of doing anything I put my mind to.”

Tilting his gaze up, Duck saw the fond smile on Mytho’s face. “I’ve sometimes wondered if that’s what having a mother felt like: someone who looked after you, encouraged you, and believed in you. It was…a wonderful feeling, to have someone like that in my life.”

For the first time in many hours, Duck found herself smiling too. _That sounds just like Ma_ , she thought. _Gentle, kind, and caring._

 _If that was so, then why didn’t Ma tell me about Mytho?_ Duck wondered again. _I don’t think she ever mentioned someone like him to me…_

At this thought, Duck raised her head, and repeated her question softly to Mytho, “But Ma never told me about you. I don’t understand why she would do that.”

Mytho’s smile faded, and Duck could see the sadness from earlier creep into his eyes again. “I think, maybe even in the end, she still could not bring herself to trust me, for us to dance a pas de deux.”

Duck furrowed her brows, confused. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Mytho reached into his coat pocket and took out a red velvet jewelry box. Without opening it, he turned it over in his hands, his eyes fixed on the small box.

At last, he said, “Duck, do you know why Elsa never returned to dance professionally?”

Duck shook her head, still mystified.

Mytho continued, “I’ve asked her the same question before. Out of all the instructors at the Crown Dance Studio, she had the most accomplished professional career. It perplexed a lot of people why she retired, but Elsa herself never gave a full answer to anyone who asked. Then one night when I was in the studio cleaning the floor, I saw her dance.”

Mytho’s mind drifted back to that night years ago. He’d wiped his brows from having just finished mopping the studio floor. Janitors would normally do the work, but in an effort to earn some extra cash, Mytho had managed to convince Paulo and Paulamoni to let him do some cleaning afterhours around the studio.

Picking up the dinted tin bucket, Mytho moved onto the next studio when he heard the eerie duet of a piano and cello coursing through the still air. Following the music, he walked up to one of the smaller, private practice rooms that the studio operated.

Quietly opening the door, he was surprised that the electric lights were turned off, and the only source of light was the scattered light of the city shinning through the studio’s windows.

A lone figure knelt in the center of the empty room, her long, slender arms languidly moving up and down as though weighted down by some immense sorrow.

Noiselessly setting down the bucket and mop, Mytho watched the figure slowly raise her head, and a familiar profile was outlined in the glow of the city lights.

“Elsa…” Mytho mouthed, surprised to find his mentor here late at night. Only then did he recall the title of the music that was drifting into his ears: _The Dying Swan_.

Elsa, who did not notice his presence, rose and standing en pointe, moved with the haunting grace and beauty of a swan in the throes of a slow death. The pale light reflected off her skin, and she seemed to glow an ashen white. When she turned, her face was illuminated, and Mytho caught a glimpse of a woman whose face was etched with anguish and sorrow.

Mytho was taken aback by what he saw, for the Elsa dancing before him was completely different from the cheerful, upbeat woman he’d gotten to know. He was at once confused and enthralled by her dance, captivated by the wistful grace with which she moved, and heartbroken from the sadness that flowed from her being. He had seen ballet as an expression of passion, of love, and life, but this was the first time he’d seen it so poignantly conveying the feeling of grief and despair.

Eventually the record reached an end, and as the music faded, Elsa, her dark silhouette outlined against the pale wooden floor, slowly rose.

As she stood, the spell of the cursed swan maiden faded into the night, and the tangible form of her human form took hold and became concrete again. Elsa breathed deeply as she caught her breath, gazing out the window as though lost in thought.

Mytho was moved beyond words for a few moments, before he said, “That was beautiful.”

Elsa started, and turned sharply toward the young man at the door.

Seeing his silhouette backlit against the door way, Elsa relaxed and said, “I didn’t know you were there, Mytho,” she said, brushing back stray strands of hair from her face as she went to turn on the electric lights. As the light come on, the hard electric lights erased the last vestiges of the eerie magic that had enveloped the room.

Mytho walked up to Elsa, who, not meeting his eyes, started to hurriedly put away the record and pack her belongings.

Mytho, however, seemed oblivious of her flustered state, dazzled as he was by what he had just seen. “That was wonderful, Elsa! You were fantastic!”

“Th-thank you,” Elsa glanced up and gave him a wan smile. But Mytho continued.

“You’ve danced as Odette before, right? Even after all these years, your form is perfect. I’ll bet if you decide to go back to dancing professionally, any company in the world would take you in a heartbeat.”

Elsa’s hands paused, her fingers twisting the towel in her hands. “I can’t dance professionally anymore, Mytho.”

The statement surprised the young man, and he blinked. “Eh? But why?”

For a long time Elsa didn’t answer, and Mytho began to wonder if Elsa would not give him an answer. But finally, she said quietly, in a barely audible voice, “I cannot dance a pas de deux.”

“But you dance so beautifully!” Mytho argued, confused.

Elsa sighed, and for the first time that night, she met Mytho’s eyes. Mytho had never seen Elsa’s eyes like this before. Instead of the usual bright, cheer that he saw, the quivering pool of blue in his mentor’s eyes were tinged with sadness as tangible as Odette’s despair.

“One cannot dance a pas de deux without trust, Mytho.”

Duck’s voice drew Mytho back into the present, as she wondered aloud, “What did she mean by that?”

Mytho’s hands paused in their consideration of the jewelry box in his hands, and he looked up at Duck. “I wondered about the same thing, but I didn’t understand either. It wasn’t until days later that Elsa would finally tell me what she meant.”

Mytho recalled that by then, he had been an Advanced Class student for some time, waiting for a class on paired dancing to begin. This was to be the first paired class for some of the newer Advanced Class students, and they waited, giddy with anticipation, for the lesson to start.

However, when Elsa appeared she announced that Mr. Brown, the male instructor who usually helped her teach paired dancing, had called in sick. This news elicited a moan of disappointment from the students.

“Settle down, everyone,” Elsa said. “The lesson will go on as planned. Since Mr. Brown is ill today, Mytho, could you help me with the demonstrations for the day?”

Surprised by the request, Mytho quickly nodded his assent. Walking up to the front of the class to stand next to Elsa, Mytho watched as Elsa continued to speak to the class. The memory of what he had seen the other night remained on his mind, and he wondered whether or not it was his imagination that Elsa seemed tense as the lesson began.

“Today we will practice the lift. It may look like a simple maneuver, but there needs to be complete and utter trust between the two partners in order for the lift to go smoothly,” Elsa said quietly.

Turning to Mytho, she asked him to place his hands at her waist and demonstrate a lift. As his hand touched Elsa’s waist, he could feel the muscles in the woman’s body tense up.

Mytho knew from experience that this was a normal response in the less experienced female dancers, but the tension usually went away after a while as the dancers became accustomed to one another’s touch and presence. But with Elsa, the tension in her body never eased, and it left the young danseur confused. _Am I doing something wrong?_ he wondered.

He tried to discern what was bothering Elsa, but the stiffness in Elsa’s body extended to her expression, and her feelings were unreadable to Mytho.

Finally, after the class ended, Mytho approached her and asked quietly, “Elsa, am I doing something wrong? You seemed uncomfortable when I was lifting you during the lesson.”

Elsa looked away, her brows furrowed, and she did not answer immediately. Only after the last student had filed out of the practice room did she say, “No, it’s not your fault, Mytho.”

In the silence of the now empty room, Elsa sighed deeply. “What you saw the other night, that Odette: that is my true self. I cannot dance a pas de deux, Mytho, because like Odette, I had been forsaken by the one I loved, and my trust was forever broken.”

Touching the pendant at her throat, Elsa continued, her voice quiet and fragile. “When I was a girl, a fortune teller had predicted that I would fall in love with a man of noble birth. And indeed, while I was participating in a production in Moscow I met my husband, Loeguire. He was a playwright, and his family was a branch of the Knight of Kerry, a well-known noble family in Ireland where we both hail from.

“I think a part of me was drawn to him because of our shared background in a foreign land. But more than that, I was drawn to his kindness and gentleness. I knew, almost immediately, that he was the man I wanted to marry, and three months later we were wedded.

“Then, a year after we’d married, Loeguire told me a company in London was interested in producing one of the plays he’d written. He had gotten a few plays produced before, but they were all modest productions at small theaters. He told me this might be his big chance at making a name for himself and left in a hurry.

“I was initially excited for him, but I grew worried after he stopped writing back. I was concerned that something dreadful had happened, and my worst fears were realized when I received a telegram informing me that the boat he had been on had capsized in the Thames, and that he was lost in the river.”

Elsa paused to wipe at a tear that had spilt over and down her cheek. Mytho wondered if he had probed too deep, but Elsa continued, “I went to London to look for him, but his body was never found.”

Elsa looked out the practice room window, her gaze distant, her brows set in a deep frown. “I was devastated. I could not dance, or smile, or laugh, for weeks afterward. Then, a month after I received the letter, I discovered that I was pregnant.”

Here Elsa managed a small smile through her tears. “Knowing that I had Duck brought light back into my world. The same fortune teller who foretold my marriage to Loeguire also predicted that I would have a child who would be my bedrock, and that’s what she became to me.

“But just as it seemed the darkness would lift, I started to receive more letters soon after Duck was born, this time threatening letter from creditors demanding payment on past due loans. Up until then, I was led to believe that our finances were solvent and well-situated. When Loeguire proposed to me, he’d given me this pendant, telling me he’d bought it with the money his family had given him.

“That turned out to be a lie. He had no money of his own. His family had gone bankrupt years earlier, and all of the money we had used, if I had not earned it through dancing, had come from numerous loans that Loeguire had taken out before we met. Now that he was gone and I was his widow, it was up to me to repay the debts.

“My father and I pooled the savings that we had, and we managed to pay off most of it. I wanted to start dancing again to repay the rest of the debt, but before I could start dancing again my father also passed away.”

Outside the studio the sun had set behind the gray buildings, and the light on Elsa’s face faded as the sun disappeared.

“After his funeral, I returned to our house to go through his belongs. And that was when I found a letter from Loeguire to my father, hidden deep in the bottom of a desk drawer, posted after the date of his ‘accident’.”

Mytho’s eyes opened wide. Elsa saw the shock on his face and she said with a cracked, bitter voice that struck a painful cord in Mytho’s heart. “Yes, he was alive. He’d written it to my father because, as he said in the letter, he was ‘too ashamed’ to face me. He apologized for running away, for deceiving me, but he felt he had no choice. He said…” Elsa paused, taking a deep shuddering breath before she forced the words past her lips, “…he said he still loved me, and he begged that I would forgive him.*

“My spirit was utterly crushed. I…I thought about taking my own life, but when I looked at Duck, at her innocent smile, and the thought that I would leave her all alone in the world pulled me back from those dark thoughts.

“I was now the one who chose to run away. I wanted to leave it all behind me, so I sold my father’s property to pay off the rest of the debt, and moved here with Duck. With some help from old friends, I found a position here and we were able to start a new life.”

Mytho, his hands bunching into fists, shook his head. “What a horrible man! How could he do that to you, to Duck!?”

Elsa wiped at her tear stained face and took a deep breath. “Yes, I was angry at him—am still angry at him—and yet, I…”

Her voice caught and she closed her hand around her pendant, “…A part of me still loves him. I wanted to sell the pendant, but I could not bring myself to part with it. It is a reminder: a reminder of our happier, more innocent days, before they were tainted by sadness and betrayal. Even if he had been lying to me all along…I don’t want to lose the memories of those days.”

In the darkened interior of the train cabin, Duck sat in her seat, unmoving. Mytho quietly turned on the lamp on the side table, and the light from the lamp illuminated the tears that were now also streaming down Duck’s cheeks.

The red haired girl looked up at the light and at Mytho, and she sniffled, wiping the tears away with the back of her hands.

“Ma…she never told me any of this.”

Mytho nodded, “No, it isn’t a pleasant story. But it’s one that I would have liked to change.”

Duck blinked when Mytho knelt down before her and opened the box. In it was a lovely yellow pendant with a woman’s profile carved onto it.

The white haired capo took Duck’s hand and gently pressed the box containing the pendant into her palm. “I had wanted to give this to Elsa, so that she might stop holding onto a love that no longer exists. But I was too late.”

Duck looked down at the yellow pendant, glowing amber hued in the lamplight. Looking back up at Mytho, still knelling before her, she asked softly, “Mytho…were you in love with Ma?”

Mytho smiled wistfully and stood up. “At one point, yes. After she told me her story, I saw this in the jewelry shop next to the pointe shoe store where Elsa worked part-time. I wanted to buy this for her, to help her let go of the past, but I didn’t have the money. When I started working for the Corvo family, this was the first thing I bought. Although, by then, it was too late; Elsa had already passed away.

“I’ve held onto it ever since,” Mytho said. “However, I would like you to have it now.”

Duck frowned uneasily. “But you got this for Ma, and…I’m not her.”

“I know. But please, keep it,” Mytho implored. “This is all that’s left of my love,” he said, closing the jewelry box in Duck’s hand. “Such a feeling is no longer of use to me, or to anyone else.”

His palm rested on the box briefly before pulling away. “I leave this sentimental token behind with you. Just like Elsa should have done, I too should stop holding onto memories of the past.”

* * *

Fakir exited the taxi and glanced down at the address scribbled in the sheet of notepaper before looking back up. In front of him was a red brick Queen Anne-style house, its dark roof peeking out from under a thick layer of snow.

Fakir made his way up the porch and knocked, but no one answered. He grimaced and knocked again. _I hope he’s here_ , he thought, double-checking the address.

Autor was the only person who could help him find Duck. But given the events in the last couple of days, Fakir would not be surprised if Autor had decided to skip town.

Earlier that morning, Fakir had tried to find Autor at the _New York World_ news office where the reporter worked. Much to Fakir’s disappointment, he was told by the other reporters there that Autor had not been in since he’d been kidnapped, and had in fact asked for a month’s leave. Rather unsympathetically, Autor’s colleagues then proceeded to bemoan how he had turned down the offer to publish a personal account of his ordeal, depriving his own paper of some lucrative, front-page material.

“The kid got scared stiff, that’s what happened, though you can’t really blame him for being scared,” a reporter named Charlie had said. “It ain’t smart to tango too closely with some of them criminals, but I don’t think you need me to tell you that,” he nodded at Fakir.

As Fakir recalled Charlie’s words, the door finally cracked open an inch, just enough for Fakir to make out the rim of Autor’s glasses behind the latched door chain.

“What are you doing here?” the bespectacled young man spoke gruffly from behind the door.

“I need to talk to you about the Corvos,” Fakir began, but Autor cut him off.

“I’m done with the Corvos! I hope that makes you happy. Now leave!”

With that terse statement Autor began to push the door close, but Fakir shoved his shoulder against the door to keep it from closing. “Wait! Autor, listen to me! I need your help!”

Hearing this, Autor stopped pushing against the door and he let out a humorless bark of laughter. “Ha! _You_? Asking _me_ for help? To think, the irony in that statement…”

Fakir sighed in frustration, and shifting his shoulder so that he could speak through the crack in the door. “Look, this isn’t just about the Corvos any more, Autor. Duck—she was the girl with me that night at the opera—she’s been kidnapped by the Corvos.”

“Duck?” Autor repeated the name to himself. He remembered that name. But from where, and when?

Autor racked his brain. Fuzzily, he recalled a dark jazz lounge, the bitter tannic taste of port wine on his tongue, and Rue, sitting curled up next to him.

An uneasy feeling began to grow in Autor’s chest, and he asked, “This girl, Duck; she had something to do with the Corvos?”

“Yes,” Fakir admitted, “She is…was…an important part of a case I had been building, but now she’s gone, and the only way I can save her is with your help.”

Autor frowned, conflicted. After being kidnapped by the Corvo gang and seeing Fakir tortured, Autor had finally realized just how far in over his head he had gotten with the Corvo family. Had the police not arrived in the nick of time, he and Fakir would surely not be having this conversation right now.

In the aftermath of his ordeal, Autor began to seriously doubt whether the impact of breaking the story on the Corvo clan was worth the sacrifice. _I could’ve been killed_ , he reminded himself, a shudder passing through him at that thought.

But if he remained silent, then the Corvos would’ve scored another victory, and no small one at that, Autor realized. If journalists were scared to report the truth, then what was the point of journalism?

Fakir waited anxiously as Autor mulled this over internally. Finally, Autor stepped back and unlocked the door chain.

Pulling the door fully ajar, Autor said, “Come in. But,” he looked pointedly at the dark haired detective, “don’t expect me to offer you a glass of water or anything.”

At this, Fakir huffed. “I wasn’t expecting you to.”

After the two men had retreated to Autor’s study, Fakir placed the paper bag containing the book Mytho had dropped off on the desk. Autor looked at the paper bag questioningly, but said nothing, and instead went to retrieve a thick notepad and pen.

Fakir told Autor about Duck’s involvement in Alphonse’s murder, and how the mysterious photo and book had came to him from Mytho.

The morning soon faded into the afternoon, and by the time Autor finally capped his pen the reporter could not mask his excitement at the incredible story that Fakir had delivered to his doorsteps.

“To think, a capo is old friends with a cop!” Autor said gleefully at the juicy potential of that tag line, but Fakir quickly corrected him.

“ _Was_. Make no mistake, Mytho is a dangerous man. You saw that with your own eyes.”

Glancing at Fakir’s bandaged right hand, Autor cleared his throat, and pushed up his glasses. “Yes, you’re right about that. But do you have any idea why Mytho wants to meet you? And why January 6th? What’s the significance of that date, besides its religious component?”

Fakir shook his head. “I’ve been pondering that question for days, but I have absolutely no idea why he wants to meet me, much less why on that specific day.”

Autor sighed and folded his arms across his chest. “In that case, maybe we should think about what other clues we might have: indirect clues, that is. I remember one of the thugs who roughed you up ran in just before the cops arrived. Mytho said something to him then. I think it was something to the effect of ‘is everything ready,’ or something along those lines. To me, it sounded like they were planning something.”

Fakir nodded, sitting back in the chair across from Autor. “I vaguely remember that too. But there was something else that stood out to me back then…”

Fakir closed his eyes. Although the memories were painful, he tried to distance himself from the emotional weight of his experience in the cellar and recall what it was that had seemed odd to him.

“The crates in the cellar…they were cigars, but there had been a pipe leaking water over them, I remember, and mildew had time to form on some of the labels.”

Autor frowned, “Cigars? That makes no sense. You can’t store cigars in conditions like that.”*

“Which means,” Fakir looked up as the realization dawned on him, “whatever was in those crates weren’t actually cigars.” His brows furrowed. “But what else could it be? It could be almost anything.”

“Do you remember if there was a brand name on those boxes?” Autor suggested.

Fakir closed his eyes to concentrate, and said, “I think it was ‘Rosa’ something. ‘La Fragante Rosa’, I think.”

“That might be something,” Autor walked over to a side table and grabbed a large phone book. “I’ll call the state’s clerk’s office to get some information on this company. There might be a lead there if the Corvos are using a company as a front to transport illicit goods.”

After finding and dialing the right number, a state employee answered the phone and asked politely, “And what can I help you with today, sir?”

Autor cleared his throat, and the words that came from the young man’s mouth made Fakir cock an eyebrow in surprise, for the bespectacled journalist had suddenly started speaking in a thick Brooklyn accent.

“I own a smoke shop, see,” Autor said as Fakir stared, “and I had recently imported shipment of cigahs from a brand callin’ ‘em selves ‘La Fragante Rosa’.”

He paused to spell out the name, and continued, “But when I got ‘em cigars they were all moldy. I can’t sell no moldy cigahs, but when I contacted ‘em no one responded. I was wonderin’ if this business is legitimate or nah, ya know what I mean?”*

“Yes, I see. We’ll look into that, sir. Give us some time and we will contact you,” the clerk replied.

Autor thanked the clerk and left his number.

After Autor hung up the receiver, Fakir asked him, “What was the accent for?”

Autor huffed and adjusted his glasses primly. “For character. I can’t very well tell them the real reason for our inquiry, and so I created a persona that would get me what I needed quickly and without question. That’s no different than what a cop would do, right?”

“Maybe,” Fakir said flatly, “but I would have left off the accent.”

* * *

While they waited for the clerk’s office, Autor and Fakir agreed it was best for them to try to find more information about “La Fragrante Rosa” in the meantime. Fakir would interview smoke shops to see if anyone had heard of that supposed brand of cigars, while Autor would search the city archives for any potentially useful information.

As they suspected, none of the smoke shop owners Fakir interviewed had heard of the brand “La Frangante Rosa”, and it grew increasingly likely that the company was a front put up by the Corvos. Perhaps the scent they were following would lead them somewhere.

However, three days after their first meeting, Fakir got a call from Autor telling him that he had gotten a response from the clerk’s office. Fakir quickly put out the cigarette he’d been smoking, and with his right hand awkwardly holding the phone, rummaged for a notebook and pen. “What did the clerk find?”

On the other end, Autor sighed and answered, “It appears the business is legitimate, at least on paper. ‘La Fragante Rosa’ was registered in New York three years ago, and operates out of Havana, Cuba. The owner is listed as someone called Falso Nome, which, if you know any Italian, means, ‘fake name’.”

“Damn,” Fakir cursed under his breath, and then back to Autor he asked, “But what about their business address in the states? Where is the address registered at?”

“I checked that one out myself. The address is a place in Manhattan, less than an hour by tram from where I live. I went there earlier today to have a look, and found a dilapidated residential tenant building.

“I went inside to take a look and ask about the cigar company, but as soon as I opened my mouth, an angry woman with five children at her heels threw me out. I think she must’ve thought I was the rent collector or something.”

Fakir groaned. This lead was a dead end. “That means the only things we have are the book and the photograph,” the detective sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“Looks that way to me,” Autor agreed. “Let’s have another look at them. Maybe we’ll find something.”

“We have to, Autor,” Fakir grimaced. “We’re running out of time.”

* * *

Fakir returned to Autor’s home that evening, and over the next few days, the two men poured over every inch of the book and the photograph. Fakir had copies of the photograph made, and Autor sent a copy of the Greek text to a professional translator, just in case there was something they had missed. To their disappointment, the translation came back largely the same as the one Fakir had made, with nothing new to add.

At a loss, Autor suggested taking the book apart, lest there was something hidden behind the cover and spine binding that they hadn’t noticed. Fakir was reluctant to damage the book, but out of sheer desperation, he acquiesced. Yet, much to their disappointment, nothing was hidden inside the covers or in the book’s spine.

New Year’s Eve, and then New Year’s Day, came and went. Still, despite their best efforts, nothing new was found.

Fakir had taken to sleeping on Autor’s couch, but in truth, neither of them slept much. Both men were tired, grim, and mentally exhausted from the task they had set upon themselves.

As the sun set below the horizon on January 2nd, the two were once again gathered around a kitchen table cluttered with notes, papers and the two central focuses of their search: the mysterious photograph and the disassembled novel.

Autor stood leaning against the kitchen counter, a cup of tea in one hand, his other arm folded across his chest. The room was oppressively quiet, with the only sound coming from the ticking of the clock and the shuffling of paper as Fakir scanned the book once again.

Staring at the mutilated novel, Autor frowned as Fakir doggedly tried to find something—anything—that might jump out at him. Watching him stubbornly pursuing a clue that Autor was becoming quickly convinced was never there, the bespectacled reporter loudly set his tea cup down on the table next to Fakir, and said, “You know, I’m starting to think this is just a waste of our time. How do you know Mytho is not playing you for a fool? You said he was your friend. He knows you. He might’ve sent you this knowing it would give you a false lead.”

Fakir buried his face in his palm, and when he looked up, the creases in his brows revealed his internal strain. “You think I haven’t thought of that? But what other choice do we have, Autor?”

“Well, how about we forget about the book, and look at the photograph instead?” Autor argued.

“And do you have any idea where this place is?” Fakir retorted back.

“Look, this thing with the book is not panning out. Just leave it alone for now—”

Autor reached to pick up the book, but in doing so his hand knocked over the teacup and its contents splashed across the once spotless pages of the novel.

“Autor!” Fakir yelled in alarm.

“Wait! I’ll get a towel!” Autor quickly turned around and grabbed a tea towel from the kitchen and began dabbing at the dampened pages of the book.

But the tea had seeped into the paper and Autor had to gingerly turn and dry each page until he came to the title page, where the duck feather was tucked.

As Autor pressed his fingers over the title page to soak away the stain, Fakir’s eyes focused on something. In between Autor’s fingers, a “Y” shaped logo could be seen.

Somehow, it was familiar. _Where have I seen that before?_ Fakir frowned.

Reaching over Autor, he picked up the photograph that they had previously deemed too ambiguous to be of much use. Studying the building in the picture more closely, Fakir’s eyes were drawn to the decorative eagle and shield façade on the right-handed side building.

In the middle of the shield was a “Y” shape, just like on the book’s title page.

Seeing Fakir suddenly go still, Autor looked up from his task to see what Fakir was looking at. “Did you find something?”

But Fakir did not answer him. Instead, he picked up the book and looked closely at the symbol he’d seen printed on the paper. Below the “Y” shaped logo was a line of text: “Chicago River Press.”*

“Chicago,” Fakir whispered, looking back at the black and white photograph.

Suddenly it seemed as if a lifeline had been offered to him, and his breath quickened, “Mytho is in Chicago!”

Autor quickly took the photo and book from Fakir’s hands, and after examining them, smiled in amazement. “Well, I’ll be…! So it’s Chicago, then? Let me think; if this was Chicago, where could this be?”

“You’ve been to Chicago? Do you recognize this place?” Fakir asked, his heart still beating rapidly from the thrill of finally finding the clue that linked the book and the photo together.

“A few times, on assignment for the _World_ , but wait, let me think!” Autor held up his hand, trying to stay focused despite his own excitement as his mind raced. “Ah… Let’s see, smoke stacks…smoke stacks…yes, the steel mills, that’s the most likely place.”

Autor rushed off upstairs, and after rummaging for a few minutes, came back downstairs with a large folded map in his hands. Quickly moving a few items aside, he and Fakir opened the map on the table to reveal the city of Chicago.

“Here,” Autor pointed at the south end of the city. “There’s a large cluster of steel mills run by US Steel in this area of South Chicago. It’s a very industrial area, which fits the look in the photo we have.”

“I’ll book a train ticket tonight,” Fakir stepped away, but Autor tugged at his arm.

“Don’t be daft; you can’t possibly get there in time and search the whole area! And besides,” Autor paused as the rush wore off and rationality reined in his excitement, “we shouldn’t jump to conclusions so quickly. There are dozens upon dozens of factories and mills in Chicago. The one in the photo might not even be in the South Chicago area, and you’ll be wasting a lot of valuable time running around Chicago without knowing where to look.”

Autor marched over to a small side table where the telephone rested and pulled out a personal phonebook from the drawer. “I know a Pinkerton man in Chicago who might be able help us. I met him a couple years ago while working on another story. His name is Vic, but everyone who knows him calls him Meerkat.”

“Meerkat?” Fakir said, askance.

“He’s half Afrikaan, and that’s his family’s nickname for him.* From what I understand, a meerkat is a small African animal that likes to digs through the dirt. And he got that name because that’s what he’s good at: digging up dirt on people.”

Autor tapped the number he was looking for in the phonebook and once he was connected, asked the operator to connect him to a number in Chicago.

Soon a man answered on the other side of the line. “Hello? Autor?”

“Hello, Meerkat; I haven’t spoken to you in a while,” Autor replied.

“Sure has been a while. But knowing you, you’re not the type to call just to chitchat. So what do you want?”

“I…” Autor paused, trying to make up a story, and settled on, “I have a lead on Dorothy Arnolds that I would like you to help me with.”*

There was a loud scrapping sound of a chair being pushed back and Meerkat said aghast, “Dorothy Arnolds? But she’s been missing for 14 years!”

“I recently met a man who claims he met Dorothy Arnolds in South Chicago not too long ago. While he was unable to recall the exact location where he’d seen her, he did, however, leave me with a description of the location.”

After Autor described the place shown in the photograph to Meerkat, the Pinkerton detective sounded decidedly unconvinced, “And how do you know this guy you met is credible? The Pinkerton did a hell of a lot of running around when that woman first went missing, and we ran into a lot of dead ends.”

“That’s true…” Autor paused, thinking quickly about what to say next, “but if this was a real lead, and she is found as a result, think about the impact the news will have! ‘Long Missing Woman Found by Pinkerton!’ You’ll be a hero! And don’t forget, her mother is still alive. Just imagine the reward she would give out to whomever finds her daughter. At least look into it, Meerkat. That’ll only cost you a few hours, and the reward would far outweigh the effort.”

There was a long, contemplative pause on the other end of the phone. Finally, Meerkat said, “All right, I’ll send one of our guys down there to have a look. Give me a day or so and I’ll get back to ya.” Autor hung up the receiver and turned to face Fakir.

The journalist sighed and shifted his gaze out the window where snow had begun to fall. “And now, the only thing we can do is wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Knight of Kerry is a hereditary knighthood in Northern Ireland. Loeguire (also spelled Lóegaire) is a given name in Irish. It was a popular name during medieval times, and is the name of a hapless hero and a murdered king. I chose this name not so much for the cultural/historical connect, but more for the fact that it sounds vaguely like Lohengrin, which is a Germanic name, and the fact that Elsa’s husband was a hapless man who bailed on his wife.
> 
> And speaking of that topic, some of you might’ve caught on that the story of Duck’s parents is loosely based on the story of Lohengrin, the Swan Knight, made famous in Richard Wager’s opera of the same name. In Lohengrin, the titular knight helps the princess Elsa, who was being falsely accused of murdering her brother, and after her name is cleared they get married. However, he stays with her on one condition: she must never ask him for his true name. Instead of Lohengrin, others addressed him as the “Protector of Brabant” (Brabant was a duchy state of the Holy Roman Empire. It later became a part of the Netherlands). When Elsa eventually breaks this taboo, Lohengrin is forced to depart and leaves her behind.
> 
> Here, as a subversion of the Lohengrin tale, I changed it so that while Lohengrin/Loeguire abandons Elsa, it was not for something she had done, but because of something that he had done.
> 
> *Cigars are stored in humidors so that they maintain a specific range of humidity, usually around 68-72%. Moldy wooden crates are therefore certainly the wrong way to store cigars.
> 
> *I apologize to the good folks of Brooklyn. I’ve never been to New York City and probably don’t watch enough TV/movies to know what a true Brooklyn accent sounds like. That was honestly the best I could do.
> 
> *The “Y” shape is commonly seen in and around Chicago, as it is the city’s municipal device: in other words, a symbol of the city. The “Y” shape was chosen because it symbolizes the three branches of the Chicago River. To this day, there are many buildings, bridges, and businesses around the Chicago area that could be seen displaying the city’s municipal device.
> 
> *For those who don’t know, Afrikaaners are the descendents of Dutch settlers in South Africa. Meerkats are small carnivorous mammals endemic to southern Africa. You might recognize meerkats from characters of such shows as Meerkat Manor, Timon from The Lion King,and the five Meerkat Brothers in Princess Tutu.
> 
> *Dorothy Arnolds was a wealthy New York City socialite who mysteriously vanished in December of 1910. There was a huge effort by her family to locate her, and there are many theories about what had happened to her, but in the end she was never found. Her father, Francis Arnolds, died in 1920, and her mother, Mary Martha Arnolds, who always maintained the belief that her daughter was alive, passed away in 1928.
> 
> And finally, I want to give a huge “Thank You” to my beta, Tomoyo Ichijouji, for her valuable feedback!


	20. Chapter 20

The view outside the car window was both eerily familiar and foreign to Duck as she was driven through the streets of Chicago. The sprawling metropolis, with its tall buildings and busy avenues, reminded her of home. But she did not know any of the streets or neighborhoods she passed through, making her pine for New York all the more.

Eventually, the car stopped in front of a tall, stately hotel. Mytho, with his two underlings following close behind, held Duck’s hand as he led her into the posh establishment.

If the circumstances had been different, Duck would’ve marveled at the extravagantly decorated hotel, with its rococo-styled painted ceiling, imported white marble floors, and French furniture. But with three mobsters flanking her, Duck could only stare timidly down at the carpeted floor and flash an occasional glance at her surroundings.

The group took the elevator to the top floor of the hotel. As they walked down the penthouse floor, Mytho’s footsteps came to a stop when a voice called out from behind them.

“Boss!”

Duck turned along with the three men and saw a sharply dressed, somewhat portly man hustling to catch up to them. Huffing, he walked up to Mytho and whispered hurriedly, “We’ve got an issue, boss. I was talking with Manny, but from what he tells me, not all of the boys are on board for the plan.”

Duck’s eyes grew wide in surprise when she saw a shadow pass over Mytho’s face at those words, and felt the grip of his hand tighten around hers. This was the first time since her kidnapping that she had seen the kind of expression she would expect from a hardened mobster on Mytho’s face, and it reminded her that the cordial young man standing next to her was the same man who was capable of murdering someone without hesitation.

“Frankie, Paul,” Mytho released her hand and turned to the Nittie brothers standing behind her. “Escort Miss Stannus to her room,” he said, handing Paul a brass room key. Looking the two gangsters squarely in the eye, Mytho said in a low voice, “If I find so much as a hair missing from her head, know that there will be consequences.”

Paul and Frankie nodded obsequiously as Mytho swiftly followed the portly man towards the opposite end of the hallway. Once Mytho was out of earshot, Frankie leered at Duck, and muttered to his brother, “I don’t get it. Why is the boss treating this broad so nicely? You’d think she was a princess or somethin’, with the way he’s been fawning over her. If it was me I’d just shove her in a basement ‘til it’s time.”

Duck shuddered inwardly at the thug’s words, her hands tightening around the handle of her luggage, but Paul just shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, it ain’t our place to question the boss’ decisions. That is, unless you have a death wish,” he smiled crookedly as they stopped in front of a pair of ivory colored double doors near the end of the hallway.

Paul pulled out the key Mytho had left him and opened the doors. Before Duck had a chance to look inside, Frankie unceremoniously shoved her forward and slammed the door closed behind her, then swiftly locked it shut.

“Now stay in there, missy, and don’t try anything funny!” Paul barked through the door. To Frankie he said, “You take the first shift. I’ll switch with you in two hours.”

Inside the hotel room, Duck pressed her ear to the door and listened to the muffled voices of the mobsters as they arranged their guarding duties. Duck let out a deep sigh, and stepped away from the door. There was no getting out this way, not with someone posted at her door at all times. She stepped away from the door and took stock of her surroundings.

The suite she had been placed in was richly-furnished, with a large bedroom and bath, and comfortable couches and chairs placed in an adjacent living area. But what caught her eyes were the rows of tall windows lining the whole side of the suite. Duck rushed to a window, and finding the latch unlocked, she pushed one open and looked down.

Below her, the street was no more than a thin black line, with pedestrians the size of pinpricks. A strong wind swept by, whipping tendrils of loose hair by her face. Duck gulped. Escaping through the window was definitely not an option, Duck quickly decided.

As she retreated back into the room, a head of wavy black hair appeared at the window next to her some ten feet away. Duck gasped, for it was none other than Rue.

Pulling herself back out onto the window, Duck braced herself against the frame for support with both hands. Edging one knee precariously on the thin stone sill, Duck shouted into the wind, “Rue!”

Rue turned sharply at the sound of her name, and the Corvo heiress’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the petite red haired figure perched perilously on the window sill next to her.

“You! What are you doing here?!”

“Mytho, he brought me here,” Duck answered loudly, straining to speak over the roar of the wind.

Rue’s eyes narrowed. For Mytho to have brought Duck here would mean that her father had wanted her here. But what was her father planning to do with the girl? Domenico Corvo was a man who dealt swiftly with those standing in his way, and Rue could not fathom why her father had taken the trouble and the risk to kidnap Duck and bring her all the way from New York City to Chicago.

As if reading her thoughts, Duck asked, “Wh-what is your father planning to do with me, Rue?”

Rue could see the fear and trepidation in Duck’s eyes clear as day. As much as Rue pitied her, she herself was also in a precarious position. Her father had already stripped her of her career and her freedom. If he were to find out that she had been talking to the witness again behind his back…

 _Just shut the window and pretend you never saw her_ , the logical part of Rue’s mind told her. _Her existence is what caused your life to be turned upside down. Nothing good will come out of continuing to associate with her_.

Yet Rue found herself unable to turn away. Both of them were effectively prisoners, and perhaps it was because of their common dilemma, Rue found herself slowly answering, “I don’t know… My father doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Oh…” Duck’s eyes drooped in disappointment. Then, as if remembering something, she looked back up and said, “But what about Mytho? He wouldn’t tell me anything. I-I was wondering, since the two of your are together, he might’ve said something to you…”

Hearing this, Rue’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How do you know about Mytho and me?”

“The night of the opera, I saw the two of you together,” Duck answered honestly, gingerly shifted her knee on the sill in Rue’s direction to better hear the raven-haired woman. “I-I don’t mean to make assumptions, it’s just that I think the two of you look like a great couple together, so I thought...!” Duck stammered, but Rue quickly confirmed her theory.

“You’re right. In fact, we’re engaged,” the former actress said joylessly. Once upon a time she would’ve said those words with pride and relish, but now the words, like her relationship with Mytho, were cold and hollow.

“Even though we’re engaged, I don’t know if he still loves me,” Rue continued, even as a part of her wondered why she was saying this to someone her family considered a threat. But the words kept coming, like a dammed up stream that had found an outlet. “He’s no longer the same person I knew. When I first met him, he was once so sweet and considerate, but in the last few months he’s grown ever more cold and disdainful towards me.”

Rue recalled the harsh words Mytho had spoken to her previously, how he had blamed her for becoming the man he was now. She remembered the calmness with which he had spoken those words, and the jagged wound they left in her heart continued to ache as she admitted bitterly, “Sometimes I even think he is no longer capable of love.”

Duck shook her head. “No! That’s not true, Rue!”

“And how would you know?” Rue snapped back darkly.

“Because I saw it for myself!” The shop girl exclaimed. “When he brought me here, Mytho was very kind to me; he took care of me, and reassured me even though he didn’t have to be nice to me,” Duck shouted into the wind. “That’s why I know—that part of him is still there, for sure!”

Though Duck had meant to reassure Rue with her words, they instead pierced the raven-haired young woman’s heart like a knife.

Mytho’s disdain for her was such that he would rather show affection to their enemy than to her. That to Rue could only mean one thing: she was undeserving of his love. This was Mytho’s punishment to her for leading him into the darkness and tainting his hands with blood. Her father had told her that he and Mytho were all Rue had now in the world. But now Mytho too was gone, the person in the world whom she loved most dearly.

“I see how it is, then…” Rue’s hands clenched into fists as she looked down at the distant streets below her. “Now I truly have nothing…”

She had been stripped of everything, and was no more than a pretty porcelain bird in a gilded cage. A porcelain bird could not fly, and if dropped, it would shatter and cease to exist.

With that mental image fixed in her mind, Rue reached up and grasped the window frame.

In the window next to her, Duck’s eyes widened in alarm as Rue pulled herself onto the window ledge and stood looking down contemplatively at the streets below.

“Rue! Wait!” Duck scrambled to stand.

But her knee, sore and numb from kneeling on the stone sill, almost gave way and caused her to slip as she struggled to pull herself upright. Her heart pounding furiously, Duck clung tightly to the masonry around the window for support. Around them the rushing wind rippled the women’s hair and clothing, threatening to pull them over the edge at any moment.

“Without Mytho’s love, I have nothing to call my own anymore!” Rue exclaimed desolately, a single tear trail sliding down her cheek as her eyes remained locked on the thin strip of dark pavement below. “What else do I have to live for?”

“No, Rue! That’s not true!” Duck shook her head vehemently. “Mytho…he still loves you!”

“How would you know?!” Rue retorted, loose strands of her dark hair framing her ashen face as she stared straight at Duck. “How could you see what is in his heart when you barely know him? When all signs point to the contrary?”

“I…!” Duck fell silent, the wind filling the void of her voice.

Rue was right, Duck realized. She had been making these sweeping statements when she barely knew Mytho, having spoken with him only a handful of times. Seeing the heartache on Rue’s face, Duck wanted to reassure her, but what good were empty words?

Something in Duck’s coat pocket made a thumping noise when the wind bumped it against the metal window frame. Duck touched her pocket, and felt the jewelry box containing the yellow pendant Mytho had given her.

Something he had said when he had given the pendant to her had bothered Duck. She furrowed her brows as she tried to recall what Mytho had said.

_Such a feeling is no longer of any use to me, or to anyone else…I too should stop holding onto memories of the past._

He had given that pendant to her as a way to let go of his feelings for Elsa. But was there more to it than just that? Duck wondered. Was that the only thing he was trying to leave behind?

 _Could it be…?_ Duck gasped as an idea dawned on her, _that Mytho was also trying to discard his feelings of love?_

If that was the case, then it could explain why he was acting coldly towards Rue. But _why_?

Duck couldn’t understand what would motivate Mytho to do such as thing. “It’s not right!” Duck exclaimed in frustration, startling a confused Rue.

“It’s true that I don’t know Mytho very well, but I think he’s acting this way because he’s trying to get rid of his feelings of love!” Duck spoke with conviction in her voice. “I don’t know why he thinks he has to do that, but I do know that love isn’t something you can easily throw away.”

Duck touched the garnet pendant at her throat. “Even if it hurts, even if it’s painful to think about, I don’t want to forget any of the people that I care about,” Duck said, as images of her mother, Miss Edel, Pique, Lilie, Mr. Kotin, and Fakir flashed through her mind. “Even if I never see them again, I will never forget the wonderful memories we made together.

“So please, Rue, please don’t give up on Mytho, and don’t give up on his love! I know it’s still there, even if he wants to turn his back on it. The Mytho who you knew and loved is still here!”

Rue listened silently, her mien an ashen mix of apprehension and doubt. Her lips parted, but before the words could leave her tongue, a loud knocking sound on Rue’s door made the dark haired young woman turn away sharply.

“Miss Rue, got a message from the Don for ya,” a mobster’s gruff voice called.

“Give me a moment,” she barked reflexively at the lackey outside her suite.

With one last quick glance at Duck, she paused for a moment before climbing down from the window and closing it behind her.

Duck watched as Rue retreated back into her room. She herself soon clambered back inside and pressed an ear against the wall, but was unable to make out what was being spoken from the soft muffled voices from next door. After a minute she heard the door open then close again, followed by the sound of silence.

Sighing, Duck plopped down next to the wall that separated her room from Rue’s. Staring at the drifting flicks of dust in the sunlight, Duck wondered if her words had managed to reach the young woman next door.

There were no hard feelings towards Rue in Duck’s heart; after all, it was Rue’s father, not Rue herself, who wanted her silenced. Given their circumstances, Duck knew being Rue’s friend was no longer possible, but even so, Duck silently prayed that she was able to convey a small flicker of hope to the girl who in her heart Duck considered a friend.

Turning her thoughts back to Mytho, Duck fished out the yellow pendant from her coat pocket and opened the box. Studying the shiny surface of the carved cameo in the sunlight, Duck wondered why Mytho would try to abandon love itself. But the beautiful pendant in her hand offered her no answers.

* * *

Fakir woke from his hazy slumber in the parlor of Autor’s house. Groggily, he yawned and gingerly lifted himself up from the couch.

The light from an overcast sky filtered through white linen curtains into the living room. Despite the small fire burning in the fireplace, the house was hushed and cold, and Fakir’s aching body protested at being roused from the relative warmth of his cot.

Glancing at the clock above the mantelpiece, Fakir saw it was nearly noon. His mouth dropped open, aghast. “God, I can’t believe I slept for this long!”

“It was about time you got some rest.”

Fakir looked up at the sound of Autor’s voice as the reporter walked into the room with two cups, one filled with coffee, the other with tea.

Handing the coffee to Fakir, he continued to admonish, “You’ve barely slept a total of six hours in the last three days. I know you policemen are used to pulling all-nighters, but lack of sufficient sleep breeds mistakes, encourages carelessness, and saps wit. I can’t say you have much of the last to begin with, but if all goes well, you will need to have your full wits about you.”

Fakir rolled his eyes at Autor’s mixed message of condescension and what he supposed passed as concern and encouragement.

The detective recalled how last night, after speaking to Meerkat, Autor had insisted that Fakir get some sleep. But Fakir, anxious to hear back from their Pinkerton man, had stubbornly refused. The two of them had argued back and forth until it was two in the morning.

In the end, it was hard logic that won the argument. Autor made a point that Meerkat would not get back to them, at the very earliest, until the next morning, so there was no point staying up the whole night to wait for him. In addition, Fakir would be of no use to anyone—and in fact, might become a hindrance—if he was exhausted and sleep deprived.

With those closing arguments, Fakir grudgingly acquiesced and bedded down on the journalist’s couch for the night. After several hours of uneasy slumber, haunted by vague dreams of white haired figures and blue eyes, Fakir’s body had recovered somewhat, but his mind continued to race.

Taking a sip of Autor’s bland coffee, Fakir turned back to the matter at hand. “Have you heard back from your man in Chicago yet?”

Autor frowned and shook his head. “I’m concerned Meerkat didn’t take me seriously enough to check out the lead,” Autor confided. “He’s a swell fellow, but the Pinkertons aren’t lapdogs; they’re not going to do something just because you tell them to do it. There has to be something in it for them. I just hope the Dorothy Arnold story I cooked up was enough to convince him to take a look into the matter.”

“You and I both,” Fakir grimaced and expelled a sigh of frustration. “We’re running out of time. There’s no telling what the Corvos are planning to do with Duck.”

Starting down at his reflection in the pool of warm liquid in his hands, Fakir wondered how the red-haired shop girl was doing. _Is she even still alive?_ his mind whispered fearfully.

There was no reason for the Corvos to keep her alive. In the back of Fakir’s mind there was the very real fear that, any minute now, he would get a message from Charon telling him the Marshals have located Duck’s body.

The only thin sliver of hope he had to the contrary was the duck feather Mytho had left with the book that now sat on Autor’s kitchen table. Fakir was relatively certain that Mytho knew Duck was the daughter of Elsa. Hopefully, out of deference to the memories of his former instructor, Mytho would leave Duck unscathed.

However, even if Mytho were to leave Duck unharmed, why would the Corvos kidnap her in the first place? This was contrary to the mob’s usual modus operandi of quickly silencing their victims.

Duck, besides her witness status, had no valuable social connections that the Corvos could exploit. There had been no ransom note or demands of any kind communicated from the Corvos to the police. Yet it was hard to believe the Corvos would take the risk of pulling off a daring kidnapping in broad daylight if they didn’t have some urgent use for Duck.

 _What are they planning to do with her?_ Fakir thought. _Could it be that they want to make an example out of her to future witnesses?_

Thinking about what the Corvos might do to Duck—having experienced it firsthand himself—Fakir felt his stomach twist, and he had to close his eyes against the dark images in his mind.

Next to him, Autor watched silently as Fakir struggled to contain his turbulent emotions. Clearing his throat softly, the journalist said, “You want to find Mytho, but you want to find Duck even more, don’t you?”

For a long moment Fakir made no reply. The clock ticked rhythmically from its spot above the mantelpiece, and the occasional pop from the wood in the fireplace could be heard clearly in the silence of the room.

Finally, after much effort, Fakir was able to speak, his voice rough and barely audible. “I need to find both of them, but Duck’s life is in great danger. I _have to_ find her; I’ve made a promise to someone to bring her back.”

“But what about you? Do _you_ also want her back?”

Fakir blinked at this question and looked up in surprise at Autor. “I…” the dark-haired man paused before he said, “…I do. I just want to give Duck her life back… return it to the way it was before this whole mess started.”

Fakir’s shoulders sagged as he continued. “If she hadn’t been in that alley the night of the murder, then she wouldn’t have been kidnapped, wouldn’t have been uprooted from the only home she’d ever known…”

 _…And we would have never met._ Fakir closed his eyes at those thoughts.

Next to him, Autor looked on thoughtfully. He recalled the night in the speakeasy. No matter how much he regretted his actions from then, he couldn’t turn back time; he had to deal with the consequences in the present one way or the other.

Setting his cup down on a nearby shelf, the bespectacled journalist set his gaze at the window and the filtered light coming through the thin curtains. “The only thing we can do now is to keep moving forward,” Autor said quietly, the warm glow from the fireplace reflected in the lens of his glasses. “So I want to do everything I can to help bring her back home as well.”

_Riiiing! Riiiing!_

The sudden clamor of the telephone in the sitting room startled the two men.

Fakir opened his eyes and hurriedly set his cup down while Autor ran into the next room and plucked up the receiver.

“Hello? A call from Chicago? Yes! Put me through!”

Fakir followed Autor into the living room as the two of them huddled around the side table where the telephone stood.

“Autor? Can you hear me?” Fakir could hear Meerkat’s voice crackling from the other end of the line.

“I can hear you. How did it go? Did you send someone to have a look?” Autor asked anxiously.

“Oh, I did all right, and it almost got me shot!”

Autor tensed. “What do you mean?”

“I told one of our boys about the place you described to me. He has an uncle who owns a garage in south Chicago, and is relatively familiar with the area. He and I went to South Works earlier this morning to ask around and see if someone around had seen someone who matched the Arnold woman’s description, but we got nothing.

“Eventually we ended up at a warehouse with a garage across the street that seemed to fit the description you gave me, and we thought our luck might finally change. My partner sees a man outside the warehouse smoking a cigarette, so he goes up to him to ask him about the Arnold woman, but before he could so much as open his mouth, the bastard pulls a gun on him!

“I started reaching for my weapon, but then three more of ‘em popped out from the warehouse, one of ‘em carrying a chopper! We knew we were outgunned, so we turned and made a run for it. The four goons gave chase, but someone behind them barked at ‘em and called them back; we just kept running!”

Autor glanced at Fakir, and the two men shared a knowing look as Meerkat continued, “Are you sure the description this man supposedly gave you isn’t phonus balonus and this is all just a wild goose chase? Because I can’t see why anyone, much less a New York socialite, would be around a place like that!”

Ignoring the Pinkerton detective’s indignation, Autor snatched up a pen and pressed him, “What street was this on?”

“What? Uh, it was right next to the Calumet River, I think near the intersection of South Avenue and 101st Street. But I don’t see how this—!”

“No, this is great, Meerkat! Thank you!”

And with that, Autor hung up the receiver on the Pinkerton detective.

Turning to Fakir, Autor held the note with the address aloft triumphantly. “The Corvos are definitely up to something! Men armed with machine guns? They must be protecting something of great value in that warehouse.”

“More than likely, whatever it is they’re guarding was probably what was down in that basement,” Fakir agreed and walked swiftly back into the parlor to gather his belongings. “I’m going to go directly to the train station and get on the first train to Chicago. Today’s the 3rd; if I leave today I should be able to arrive there before the 6th.”

“No, I don’t think that’ll be possible,” Autor said from beside the window, where he had pulled back the curtain.

Walking up to the window, Fakir saw that the snowstorm from the night before had dumped more than four feet of snow on the ground, leaving everything covered in a thick blanket of white.

“The trains can’t run in this much snow,” Autor frowned. “The roads are probably just as badly affected.”

“Damn it!” Fakir turned away from the window in frustration. “Then what other option do we have?”

Striding back towards the telephone, Autor said, “Travel by rail and road might be affected by the snow, but I know of a third method that can take you to Chicago.

“However,” the reporter paused and looked at Fakir, “I’m warning you now: you might not like this option once you see it.”

* * *

The next day, with the sun not yet above the horizon, a car pulled up to an empty field outside the New York City limits.

The car came to a stop a few yards away from a barn that stood at one edge of the field. Autor and Fakir got out of the vehicle, with Fakir toting a light canvas pack and wrapped in multiple layers of coats and scarves.

With the aid of a flashlight, Autor led Fakir to the front of the barn where a light could be seen. After turning the corner, Fakir could see that the barn’s large wooden doors were open and inside was a machine that took up nearly the entire width of the building.

It was a Curtiss JN-4 biplane.*

“Is that the airplane?” Fakir asked, his voice muffled by the thick wool scarf he wore.

The day before, while Autor made the arrangements, he had instructed Fakir to go back to his apartment and wear the warmest clothes he had. Fakir had stowed some bare essentials in a canvas bag, as well as his revolver and two boxes of ammo. The metal clattered softly as Fakir’s feet crunched through the fresh snow towards the barn.

“You’ve never seen one before?” Autor wondered.

“Not in person, no,” Fakir admitted.

“Well, this is your chance to get to know one up close and personal,” Autor said as they entered the barn.

Fakir looked over the machine as Autor went to look for its owner. The plane was painted vividly in red and gold. On the tail section of the plane was a line of hand painted black text that read “ _Le Taureau_ ”.*

As Fakir walked around the wing to better examine the aircraft, the sharp bark of an accented voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Non! How dare you touch mon chérie précieux!”

Fakir twisted around and found a lithe, male figure with curly, shoulder-length locks striding towards him. The stranger wore an incongruous frilly white shirt underneath a leather flight jacket, with the lace peeping out from behind the fur collar. Wrapped around his neck was a tasseled red scarf, the same shade of red as the plane, and over it hung a pair of spotless aviator goggles.

“Good morning, Monsieur Femio,” Autor stepped forward to greet the eccentrically dressed man.

Femio tossed his head to the side dramatically, clearly displeased, “I heard noises in the hangar so I came to have a look, lest I deprive any early morning female visitors the pleasure of seeing my magnificent visage. But instead I find a brutish man harassing my dear steed!”

The pilot wrapped his arms around his torso, and exclaimed, “Is my beauty so great that women could not bear to be in my presence? Is it divine punishment that I shall be seen only by other men?”

Fakir stared at the man’s bizarre behavior in mute disbelief. He cocked an eyebrow at Autor questioningly.

With visible embarrassment, Autor said, “Fakir, this is Monsieur Femio. He is the pilot who will be taking you to Chicago.”

While Fakir gaped speechlessly, Autor cleared his throat loudly and said to Femio, “Monsieur, I am the one who called yesterday to employ the service of you and your aircraft. My…colleague, Fakir, needs to go to Chicago, as quickly as possible.” Reaching into an inner coat pocket, Autor took out an envelope. “Here is the payment for your service, as we had previously agreed—.”

But before Autor could finish speaking, Femio waved his hand, surprising Autor and Fakir. “Oui! But I have changed my mind! Le Taureau and I shall not fly today.”

“Monsieur, you have _agreed_ to fly to Chicago!” the reporter stressed. “Winter is the low season for you. Surely you need the money?”

However, Femio simply shrugged. “My divine beauty will suffer in this cold! Money is secondary compared to that. I cannot present myself with chapped skin to les femmes! Your friend shall have to find another way.”

With that Femio started to walk away towards the back of the barn.

Seeing Femio casually saunter off, Fakir could no longer contain his anger, and strode toward the pilot. “You bastard! Do you think this is a game!? Someone’s life is at stake here!”

Before Fakir got any closer to Femio, Autor pulled him back and attempted to mollify him. “Shhh! Fakir, don’t! Let me talk to him!”

“He’s a nutcase!” Fakir fumed, gesturing at Femio, who was happily ignoring them as he hummed to himself and polished his goggles. “Does he even know _how_ to fly a plane? Where did you find this screwy buffoon anyway?”

Autor pushed the bridge of his glasses, and said in a hushed voice, “I assure you, that despite his…eccentricities, Femio is in fact highly skilled at operating an airplane. I had met him once before for a story on local barnstormers, and from what I could gather he was a pilot during the war in France—or maybe it was in Belgium, no one’s really sure. Some say he lost his mind during the war, though it’s just as likely he was crazy before the war.”

"I don’t care if he was an ace pilot during the war!” Fakir retorted. “I’d rather take my chances with the train than go anywhere with this loon!”

The bespectacled reporter sighed in exasperation. “Look, Fakir, with the snow delays it’ll take at least two days to get to Chicago by train. You won’t make it in time! With an airplane, including the time needed for refueling, you can get there within a day if the weather is clear. We don’t have time to lose; Duck doesn’t have time to lose! This is not the time to be stubborn and pigheaded!”

The mention of Duck seemed to assuage Fakir’s anger. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Fine. But I can’t go anywhere if he doesn’t want to take me!”

Autor scowled pensively and after a moment, said, “I might be able to convince him. Wait here.” He left Fakir’s side and walked over towards the eccentric barnstormer.

The detective watched fretfully from where he stood by the barn door as Autor spoke to Femio. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but after a minute whatever Autor said suddenly made Femio gasp and exclaim, “C’est vrai!?”

Then, much to Fakir’s chagrin, Femio scurried over to his side and took the detective’s hands. Looked tearfully at Fakir with wide, puppy eyes, Femio cried, “Mon ami! Why did you not say so! To think, that you are embarking on a noble mission! I shall—ah, non! I _must_ assist you in this divine quest of yours! Montand!”

Femio abruptly let go of Fakir’s hands and rushed back into the building, shouting as he went, “Montand! Come, my man! We must ready Le Taureau to take flight! A noble mission awaits me!”

The next hour went by in a whirlwind of activity. Montand, Femio’s silent but dutiful mechanic, did a speedy but thorough inspection of the plane while some teenage boys from a nearby farm helped to clear the snow that had gathered over the runway.

Under the first rays of daylight, after a lot of shouting and yelling, the men pushed the aircraft from its hangar, and Fakir found himself squeezed into the front cockpit. Femio, his jacket now zipped all the way up and his curly locks tucked beneath an aviator helmet, snapped on his goggles and hopped onto the rear cockpit.

While Femio fiddled with the controls, Autor’s voice called out to Fakir from beside the plane. “Fakir!”

The detective looked over the windshield as Autor reached up and handed him a pair of goggles and two balls of cotton. “You’ll need these once the plane gets into the air. The wind and the noise can be hellish, but these should help. Oh, and if you’re bothered by heights, whatever you do, don’t look down.”

Fakir gulped as he accepted the items from Autor.

From his seat, Femio gave the thumbs up and Montand spun the props. The engine sputtered and roared to life, making the plane rattle violently. With a jerk and a lurch, the machine began to move forward.

From his front seat inside the vibrating aircraft, Fakir cast one last look at those on the ground. Autor wore a solemn expression on his face. The two men did not wave at one another; instead Autor gave the detective a curt nod, which Fakir returned in kind.

After taxiing for a short distance down the runway, the plane gathered speed and began to pull up off the ground, thrusting Fakir back into his seat.

It quickly became apparent why Autor recommended the use of the cotton balls. The bone shattering din of the engine and the screaming wind was deafening, even more so than Fakir had anticipated. He tore off bits of the white fiber with his gloved fingers and stuffed them into his ears to block out some of the noise. The frigid polar air whipped through his hair and across his skin, forcing Fakir to draw the scarf more tightly across his face.

As the plane leveled off after it reached cruising altitude, Fakir glanced over the side of the aircraft and was struck by the amazing view of the countryside laid out before him. Buildings and vehicles had shrunken to the size of children’s toys against the ethereal white backdrop. Trees became matchsticks, and roads shrank to thin lines, barely visible in the snow. Fakir watched the scenery change below him with a quiet fascination. It was exhilarating, seeing the world from a bird’s eyes view for the first time.

However, his study of the landscape was interrupted when he heard Femio shout something at him. With the wind and the noise, it was impossible to make out the words, and Fakir strained to hear even his own voice as he turned and shouted back at the pilot, “What did you say?”

Femio made a twirling motion with one hand. Before Fakir could figure out what the gesture meant, the plane suddenly lurched a sharp right before tumbling down in a corkscrew.

“ _AHHHH!_ ”

Fakir screamed as the plane seemed to spin endlessly over and over until it finally came out of its last turn and began climbing in altitude. For once, Fakir did not hear the noise of the plane and the wind, as the mad pounding of his heart seemed to fill his ears.

When he finally stopped screaming, Fakir sat gasping for air in his seat, his good left hand clinging desperately to the side of the cockpit compartment. If it weren’t for the fact that he was strapped into his seat, Fakir was sure he’d have been thrown from the plane.

Behind Fakir, Femio grinned, feeling exceedingly proud of his aerial acrobatics. But Fakir shared no such sentiment.

Letting loose a string of curses and expletives at the man sitting behind him, Fakir finished by screaming at the top of his lungs, “Don’t _ever_ do that again, you nutcase!”

Fakir wasn’t sure if Femio heard him, but Femio gave Fakir an offended pout and shrugged his shoulders.

Sinking into his seat, Fakir rode out the rest of the flight in nervous silence. Thankfully, Femio did not try to do any more stunts as they made their way west, but Fakir did not trust the pilot as far as he could throw him and maintained a death grip on the edge of the passenger compartment for the rest of the flight.

After traveling for two hours, the plane began to descend. Fakir first noticed the change when he felt an uncomfortable sensation in his ears. He was about to protest why they were losing altitude when he recalled Autor had said the plane would need to be refueled along the way.

With three strong bumps, Femio touched down on a patch of dirt and gravel runway on the outskirts of a small town. A group of boys and two men who had watched them land now came running towards them.

The older and burlier of the two men called out to them, yelling, “Femio, what are you doing here in this god-forsaken season?”

The dapper barnstormer stood up from pilot’s compartment, and with the confidence of someone who was either completely mad or totally drunk, declared, “I am on a mission, mon ami! But alas, I am running low on fuel!”

“Oh? And why should I give you any?” the man crossed his arm gruffly. “Fuel ain’t exactly cheap, and it’s the low season. I have my own bottom line to look after,” the man cocked a thumb at the barn behind him. Fakir gathered that this fellow was probably also a barnstormer, though one with far more sense than the lunatic he had been saddled with.

Femio hopped down from the plane and whispered something to the man and his companions, who then all turned and looked at Fakir. Fakir cringed uncomfortably from the many pairs of eyes staring at him, but to his amazement, the burly man sighed, threw up his hands and said, “In that case, all right then! We’ll give you some fuel. Just be on your way quickly once it’s done.”

To Fakir, he said, “You’re probably feeling pretty cramped in there. You can get out and stretch your legs while this ‘ol girl gets topped off.”

Fakir removed his goggles but remained in his seat. Shaking his head, he replied, “We’re pressed for time. I’d rather stay here so we can be on our way quickly.”

“I see,” the man chuckled. He tipped his hat at the detective. “Heh, if I were in your shoes I’d probably do the same.”

Before Fakir could ask him what he meant, the heavy-set man turned away and barked at the boys to fetch a can of gasoline. Working quickly, their host filled the tank of their aircraft (Femio had refused to do the deed himself, not wanting to dirty his gloves with engine grease) and before long the plane was airborne once again.

This scene repeated itself several more times throughout the day, as they traveled across the frozen landscape of the Eastern United States from New York, through Pennsylvania, and onto Ohio. At each stop, Femio would whisper something to the local barnstorms that he knew; they would stare at Fakir for a few seconds, then despite some hesitation, the pilots would relent.

By the time they touched down next to a barren cornfield near the border between Indiana and Illinois, it was late afternoon. The latest location they had stopped to bum fuel off of was occupied by a ten-year-old boy, who claimed his father was away in town for business.

Precocious and alert, the child refused to open the door for Femio, whose strange antics was not helping matters one bit. In the end, Fakir had to step in. After showing the boy his police badge through a crack in the door, he explained to the child that they were in need of fuel so they could continue on their journey.

“Why are you flying? It’s the dead of winter and my pa never flies in this season.”

Before Fakir could open his mouth, Femio leapt in and declared, “We are on a mission of love, mon fils! A holy mission to reunite separated lovers!”

Fakir’s face instantly flushed crimson. “You idiot, what are you talking about?!”

But Femio only wagged a finger at him and posed dramatically in the glow of the setting sun. “Non, non, mon ami! There is no need to be embarrassed! Your friend the reporter has already told me everything! You are chasing after your lover, a young lady who was kidnapped by a jealous rival and spirited away to Chicago! I, the champion of love, shall help you rescue her!”

Fakir made a mental note to strangle Autor once he got back to New York. But for now all he could do was groan and bury his face in his hands from the humiliation.

While Fakir was dying from embarrassment, Femio reached out his arm to the boy, who watched the whole scene unfold with amusement. “This is why, mon jeune ami, we need your help! To fulfill this mission of love!”

The boy giggled and replied, “Boy, you are a funny one, mister. Alright then. My pa’s rather absentminded, so he probably won’t notice if some of the gas has gone missing. I’ll show you where it’s stored.”

As they followed the child to fetch fuel, Fakir glared daggers at Femio. “Have you been telling this nonsense to everyone we’ve met so far?”

“Bien sûr! Love is a strong emotion, mon ami, a universal feeling that all can relate to. Just as women cannot resist me, humans by our very nature cannot resist love. It is a pure, primal emotion, pulling one into its embrace like a torrential tempest!” The flamboyant pilot’s eyes sparkled.

“Your devotion to this young lady is such that you are willing to endure a journey of a thousand miles, over mountains and rivers to take her back! What a wonderful and profound demonstration of the power of love! That is why, as the embodiment of this most universal of emotion, I shall assist you in your endeavor! Though the greatest test of your love will be at the end, for when votre chéri beholds my magnificent body she may well abandon you for me. Ah, what a sinner I am, to be cursed and blessed by such beauty!”

This latest quixotic drivel from Femio failed to elicit a response from Fakir. Instead, Femio had raised a point that, up until that point, Fakir himself had not thought about. It had surprised him sufficiently that Fakir was rendered speechless for a few minutes.

Fakir had assumed his desire to protect Duck stemmed from the fact that as a police officer, it was his duty to protect and serve. And while duty certainly played a large part in his quest to rescue Duck, taking a step back and thinking about it, the length to which he was willing to go in order to find Duck seemed to go beyond the requirements of duty.

There was a far more personal drive at work, a yearning laced heavily with emotions that were now inseparable from his memories of her. She was clumsy and short-tempered while also incredibly brave, understanding, and kind. Her smile had warmed him, and her words had encouraged him. To Fakir, Duck was, in a word, special.

Fakir’s brows remained furrowed as the plane, now refueled, was back up in the air. Above them, stars appeared in the dark veil of night as the first glimmers of artificial stars from the Windy City also appeared on the horizon.

With the wind sweeping past his borrowed goggles, Fakir looked up and his gaze met the twinkling starlight above him. A streak of light briefly passed overhead.

Fakir knew better than to believe a shooting star could make wishes come true; after all, no amount of stardust could bring back his parents or undo the scars of his past. But, at that moment, Fakir found himself saying a silent prayer to the powers that be that he would be able to protect those dear to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Curtiss JN-4 (commonly called “Jenny”) was a very popular airplane used by barnstormers in the years between the two great World Wars. It was originally used to train pilots for the US Army, and after World War I thousands of these planes were sold to civilians at affordable prices.
> 
> I took some heavy artistic license with the travel time Fakir and Femio took to get to Chicago from New York City. Nowadays, a flight between the two cities takes two hours. But unlike an airliner that flies at over 400mph, the Jenny’s top speed is 75mph, and it needs to be refueled every two hours or so. The distance between New York City and Chicago is approximately 780 miles, so even if the boys are extremely efficient it’ll still take them at least ten hours to get from New York to Chicago. During the winter there’s only about eight hours of daylight in the northern parts of the United States, so that would’ve made navigation pretty difficult in the pre-radar era.
> 
> * "Le Taureau" is French for "The Bull", a reference, of course, to Femio's (in)famous association with the animal in the original anime.
> 
> Since I don't speak French, I used Google to translate all of the French words and phrases I used in this chapter, and I hope they are grammatically correct. That being said, I’m not going to provide translations for any of the French spoken by Femio. This serves a purpose, as Femio’s superfluous use of French is meant to be confusing to non-French speakers, especially in the context of his over-the-top declarations.
> 
> As for why Femio is a barnstormer, I thought his flamboyant personality is a good fit for that profession, but mostly it’s because I love putting him and Fakir together in a small plane and writing all of the shenanigans that ensues.
> 
> Last but not least, I want to give a huge "Thank You" to my beta, Tomoyo Ichijouji, for her valuable feedback!


	21. Chapter 21

Outside the confines of Duck’s hotel room, night retreated to the west and the sun rose on a new day. Duck sat, fully dressed and awake, on the plush king size bed with her arms wrapped around her knees. In her hands were the two pendants in her possession: the garnet one worn by her late mother, and the yellow one given to her by Mytho.

Locked up in her room, the only human contact Duck had over the course of a week was when food and books were delivered to her. Frankie and Paul barely spoke to her, and when they did it was mostly to complain about being Duck’s wardens. Duck was therefore very appreciative of the mix of puzzle books and novels that were delivered to her on a daily bases, which Duck knew must have been arranged by Mytho to help her keep boredom at bay.

Still, even with the books to preoccupy her, Duck spent most of her waking hours thinking about everything that had happened to her since her kidnapping. There were no signs of Rue after their first meeting, but Duck could not forget the look of despair in the Corvo heiress’s eyes.

The sight of Rue in so much pain made Duck wonder if her mother had experienced the same grief after she discovered her father had abandoned her. As a child, she remembered seeing Elsa sitting by herself late at night in her bedroom, looking pensively at the garnet pendant her husband had given her.

Duck had thought it was a look of longing; but now, after what Mytho had told her about Elsa’s past, she could only imagine the complex range of emotions her mother must’ve felt at the sight of the pendant.

_It must’ve been really hard for Ma, after what Pa did_ , Duck thought to herself. _But unlike Pa, Mytho is still here, right next to Rue._

Thinking about the white-clad capo, Duck could not understand how anyone could give up their feelings of love. Even Elsa, who felt betrayed and abandoned, could not discard the love she felt for her husband.

_Mytho is still capable of love, I’m sure of it_ , Duck repeated her words to Rue to herself. She had seen the warmth in his eyes and the gentleness in his manners in the brief time she’d met him, and she was sure what she saw was not an act.

_But why would Mytho push Rue away? Could it really be that he no longer loved her?_

Duck’s thoughts drifted back to Loeguire, the father she never knew. While her father’s actions were reprehensible and cowardly, if his letter was to be believed, he had a reason for deserting Elsa.

Could Mytho be in a similar situation? Was he pushing Rue away, not because those were his true feelings, but due to reasons and circumstances that no one was aware of? Judging by what Mytho said to her when he gave her the pendant, it wasn’t just his love for Rue that he was trying to leave behind, but all of love itself as well. Though, what reason would Mytho have to do that?

Sighing, Duck leaned backwards and flopped down in her bed, her fingers closed loosely around the pendants. _What would Ma say if she saw Mytho as he is now?_ Duck frowned sadly.

She knew that Elsa would have wanted Mytho to stay true to his dreams. But Elsa was gone, and Mytho was no longer the innocent young man he once was. The past was filled with so many regrets, so many sad memories. Could it have become such a great burden that Mytho would want to discard his love?

Yet, even if the past was filled with sorrow, Duck would not trade it for the world. Her memories and emotions were her own, and they were precious to her, just as her mother’s pendant was precious to Elsa despite the sorrow it carried. The same had to be true of Mytho’s love for Elsa, and for Rue.

The stream of thoughts in Duck’s head was abruptly disrupted when a sharp knock came from her door. Duck sat up as the door clicked open and Mytho walked into the room.

Pendants still in hand, Duck climbed off the bed as Mytho closed the door behind him and walked towards her.

He smiled. “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to see how you’ve been doing in the last few days, Duck. I hope your stay here has been well?”

Duck nodded, suddenly feeling at a loss for words. “Y-yeah…” she managed weakly.

_What can I say to him_? _How can I make him understand how Rue feels?_

Across from her, Mytho gave her another small smile. “I apologize for the abruptness, but we will be leaving the hotel now. Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to bring anything with you on this trip.”

Hearing this, Duck’s pulse quickened. “Eh? But…where are we going?” she asked, her palm beginning to sweat around the two pendants clutched tightly in her hands. 

“I’m sorry; I can’t tell you. However, you will see shortly,” was the only answer Mytho gave her.

Trying to reassure her, he repeated, “Please, believe me when I say I will not hurt you.” Turning away, he said, “Now, please follow me.”

Seeing Mytho walk away from her, Duck realized this might be her last chance to speak one-on-one with him. She had no idea what awaited her outside the doors of the hotel room, but come what may, Duck knew there was something she needed to do before it was too late.

“Mytho, wait!” she called out, stopping Mytho just as he was about to reach for the door handle. 

Hurrying to catch up to him, the capo looked at her in puzzlement as Duck took a deep breath and said, “Before you go, there’s something that I need to give you.” 

Duck opened her hands to reveal the pendants to Mytho. She took one last long look at them before gently taking Mytho’s hand and dropping the two items into his palm. 

Perplexed by her behavior, Mytho frowned. “This garnet pendant belonged to Elsa. You should keep it…”

Duck silenced him with a shake of her head and smiled softly. “This pendant is the essence of Ma’s love, and though she’s no longer here, I think she would’ve wanted you to have it. It’s a reminder of the Mytho she’d met, the same Mytho who Rue knew: the kind, gentle boy who loved ballet.”

Mytho blinked, surprised that Duck knew about his relationship with Rue. “When did you…?”

But Duck continued, stumbling with her words as she barreled ahead. “I-I know it’s none of my business, but I know for certain that Rue loves you, Mytho! Please don’t push her away. Your love is a part of you, just like it was a part of Ma; even though it might hurt you, it’s also a precious emotion that shouldn’t be thrown away.”

Touching the yellow cameo pendant Mytho had given her previously, Duck’s smile deepened as she lifted her hand away. “I haven’t known you for very long, and I only have an inkling of what you’ve been through in the last few years, but I know one thing: the real you is the Mytho that I met on the train, who took care of me when he had every reason not to be kind to me. Please don’t discard that part of you; don’t abandon your true self and your feelings of love—for Rue’s sake, as well as your own.”

Mytho silently looked down at the pendants in his palm. Outside, Paul’s voice called out, “Boss? Everything alright?”

Mytho did not answer immediately. Instead, he closed his eyes briefly before closing his fingers around the pendants, his expression guarded and undecipherable. 

“She’s ready,” Mytho said to the lackeys waiting outside.

Frankie and Paul opened the door, and with Mytho beside her, Duck was escorted out of the hotel and into a discreet black car parked next to the curb. 

As the car pulled into the early morning traffic, Duck’s gaze remained on Mytho who was sitting in the front passenger seat. She could not see his face, and there was no way for Duck to know if her words had reached him as they drove towards their destination in silence.

Eventually Duck lowered her gaze from the capo to the scenery outside the back passenger window. Unfamiliar roads, bustling avenues and lively shops gradually gave way to barren streets and gray factories as they drove from the busy city to the steel mills in the south.

The car they were traveling in eventually came to a stop outside a dusty warehouse, its roof, made of corrugated steel sheets, heavily stained with long rivulets of orange rust.

As she was led out of the vehicle, Duck could hear the chugging noise of a tugboat nearby. The caustic air smelt of industrial exhaust and gasoline runoff from the nearby garages and mills, forcing Duck to cover her nose.

Mytho took out a piece of black cloth from his coat pocket and began to cover Duck’s eyes. “Wait, what are you—!” Duck began, panic in her voice.

“Shhh,” Mytho whispered into the young woman’s ear.

The thought of making a last ditch attempt to wrestle herself free and make a run for it crossed Duck’s mind, but she just as quickly realized it was a bad idea. While Mytho had promised he would not harm her, Duck had a feeling his lackeys would have no reservation shooting her in the back if she tried to escape.

Thus, Duck allowed Mytho to finish tying the blindfold over her eyes. Unable to see, she could only hear the sound of the warehouse door being unlocked and opened, followed by the low growl of male voices.

“Wait here until I call for her,” Duck heard Mytho speaking to the two remaining mobsters, his shoes making crunching noises on the loose gravel pavement before it disappeared as he stepped inside the warehouse.

With Mytho gone, Frankie grabbed hold of Duck’s arm in a vice grip. Unable to see, Duck swallowed thickly. Inside her chest, her heart was pounding wildly as fear gripped its cold, clammy fingers closed around it.

It seemed like an eternity had passed, but in fact only minutes later, Duck felt a painful tug on her arm as Frankie pulled her forward. Making a small squeak of surprise, Duck stepped shakily into the pale electric light of the warehouse.

* * *

By the time Fakir made his way to the outskirts of Chicago it was completely dark. Despite facing freezing temperatures, deafening noise, and the possibility of running out of fuel midflight, the hardest part of Fakir’s airborne journey prove to be shaking off Femio.

“As the champion de l'amour it is my duty to see that your mission is complete!” Femio declared as the two of them stood next to Le Taureau in an open field.

The farmer whose land they had touched down on was initially highly suspicious of the two strangers and their airplane, and had greeted the two men with a loaded shotgun. Thankfully, Fakir’s quick thinking had saved them from being riddled with bird shot, as the sight of the nickel police badge put to rest some of the farmer’s suspicions, and he agreed to help them call for a car to pick up Fakir and take him to the city.

However, when Femio heard Fakir was planned to go on alone he had vehemently insisted on tagging along. For several minutes he and Fakir stood arguing back and forth while the farmer and his family studied Femio’s flying machine with the light of their kerosene lanterns.

“You can’t come with me!” Fakir had said through grated teeth. “The people I’m going to find have guns! They’ll kill you!”

“Nonsense! Love is impervious to earthly weapons!” Femio retorted.

Fakir groaned loudly as he struggled to contain the urge to punch the delusional barnstormer. For a supposed veteran of the Great War, Fakir had expected Femio to shun conflict. Instead, it seemed the barnstormer was more than ready to throw himself at dangerous situations.

Just as his patience was stretched to its limits, an old Ford Model T pulled up to the snow-dusted field. 

Honking his horn, the driver stuck his head out the window and hollered, “Somebody here needs a ride?” 

“Coming!” Fakir shouted. Not bothering to continue talking in circles with Femio, Fakir picked up his bag and began to walk towards the car.

“Attendez pour moi!” Femio started, but a tug from a small hand on his jacket stopped him as one of the farmer’s children pointed her other hand at the plane.

“Mister, is this your airplane? Can we ride it?”

Another child popped his head up from the pilot’s cockpit and waved at his siblings on the ground. “Look at me! I’m a pilot! Vroom!”

Femio gasped in dismay at the sight of the boy sitting in his machine and quickly went over to shoo them away.

Fakir, seeing Femio distracted, hurriedly got into the car and said to the driver, “Step on it, as fast as you can!”

The surprised driver obliged, taking Fakir away from the flustered pilot and his small gaggle of young admirers.

Finally able to breathe a sigh of relief, Fakir turned his thoughts to locating the warehouse Meerkat had given him the address to.

Fakir asked the driver to drop him off several blocks away from the location of the warehouse, which the driver was only too happy to do, as the area was not well known for being friendly to lone visitors after dark.

Covering the rest of the distance on foot, Fakir crept along in the shadows of buildings and warehouses, watching warily for any movement from the corner of his eyes.

At last, he arrived on the street where Meerkat had nearly been attacked earlier. A lone light bulb hung over the door of the warehouse, and with its light Fakir could see that across the street was a disused building with the familiar eagle and “Y” shaped façade. Next to it was a garage; a discolored billboard advertising motor oil hung above the shuttered front gate. In the distance, three tall smoke stacks stood like sentinels, smoke bellowing out even in the dead of night.

Fakir quietly fished out the photograph Mytho had sent him and compared the scene before him with the photo. _This is the same place, all right_ , Fakir concluded, and tucked the photo back into his pocket.

It was now the wee hours of January 6th, but Fakir had no idea when Mytho might show up, or if the capo and Duck were already inside. The only way to know was to go in for a closer look.

As softly as he could, Fakir treaded over to the small alley next to the warehouse. Looking down the length of the narrow street, Fakir could see that the warehouse’s windows had been covered with newspaper. Even so, thin slits of light could still be seen escaping from inside the warehouse.

Fakir crept towards the edge of the windows where a pile of discarded large wood crates and other refuse stood. Once he made sure the crate closest to the window could support his weight and that it would not creak loudly, Fakir gingerly stepped onto the wooden structure and peered into the warehouse through a gap in the newspaper.

Inside were a group of five or six men, some standing, some sitting, chatting amongst themselves. From the snappy jackets and waistcoats they wore, Fakir knew these were not blue-collared longshoremen. His suspicion was cemented when he glanced to the side and saw the distinctive outline of a Tommy gun propped against a stack of wooden crates.

Fakir’s eyes narrowed. These must have been the same people who confronted Meerkat previously, and they were here guarding whatever was in the crates.

After watching from his vantage point for several minutes, Fakir stepped off the dusty wooden box to contemplate his next step.

He saw no sign of Mytho or Duck in the warehouse, so it was likely they were not in the warehouse at this time. However, it was impossible to say when they might show up, and in the meantime Fakir had to make sure his presence went undetected by the goons inside the warehouse. 

Shifting his eyes back to the pile of debris, Fakir walked around the pile of discarded crates and saw that one had been turned on its side, with a torn and stained shipping blanket tossed haphazardly over the opening. Surrounded by piles of discarded tires and facing away from the street, the crate made an ideal hideout for a few hours, provided that Fakir didn’t make any noise. 

Carefully, Fakir climbed into the crate and pulled the shipping blanket back over the crate opening. The space was extremely cramped and cold, and it smelt of motor oil and rubber, but this was not the time or place to complain, not after he’d finally made it to the place he’d been searching so long for.

Taking out his Colt revolver, Fakir checked the gun and loaded its chambers with bullets. Clicking the barrel back into place as quietly as he could, Fakir leaned back against the rough wooden planks of the crate, and closed his eyes. The only thing he could do now was wait.

The weariness from his long journey soon caught up with him, and before Fakir realized it he had fallen asleep.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun had began to rise, and the distant sound of factories and mills coming to life in the new day could be heard all around him. Beyond the background murmur of industry, Fakir could hear the sound of car tires crunching across gravel at the other end of the alley.

Quickly rubbing the remaining sleep from his eyes, Fakir perked up his ears and listened as car doors opened.

A number of male voices speaking in hushed tones could be heard, followed by the sound of a creaking metal door being opened and closed.

Fakir carefully lifted the blanket covering his hideout, and after looking around to make sure the coast was clear, he pulled himself out of the crate as quickly as he could, despite the soreness in his muscles.

In the light of dawn, Fakir could see that the back of the warehouse was only a few feet away from the cold Calumet River. Hoping there’d be a back entrance he could take, Fakir softly treaded his way to the back of the building. Keeping his body low, Fakir looked around the corner and was happily surprised to find an opened back door.

But before he could take a step forward, a gangster with a cigarette in hand appeared and planted himself at the front of the door, forcing Fakir to quickly retreat behind the building.

At the front of the warehouse, Fakir could hear the sound of more cars arriving and a hubbub of human activity.

_Something’s definitely happening_ , Fakir’s mind raced. He had to get inside the warehouse as quickly as possible.

Looking around, Fakir noticed numerous pieces of loose gravel of varying sizes at his feet. This gave him an idea.

Picking up one relatively large piece of rock, Fakir waited until the gangster briefly turned his back towards him and tossed the stone as far as he could towards the Calumet River where it made a loud “ _kaplunk!_ ” sound as it hit the water.

The sudden noise made the man at the backdoor look up. With his cigarette in his mouth, the mobster slowly made his way towards the river’s edge to investigate. 

Once he was sufficiently far away enough from the warehouse, Fakir quietly snuck around the corner and slipped in through the backdoor. 

Weaving his way around large, disassembled machinery and disused automobile parts, Fakir edged closer and closer to the center of the warehouse where voices could be heard. However, he didn’t travel far before the backside of a group of mobsters forced him to hide behind a set of large metal containers.

Looking through the gap between the containers, Fakir could see that at least fifty men had gathered inside the warehouse, split roughly into four groups.

Standing prominently in the center were three men who looked vaguely familiar to the detective, but before Fakir could try and figure out where he’d seen them before, the sharp tapping sound of a cane echoed through the air, followed shortly by the raspy voice of an old man.

“Buongiorno, signori.”*

Domenico Corvo, with Rue in tow behind him, walked into view. Fakir’s eyes grew wide, then narrowed. The sight of the Don made the wound in his right hand begin to throb, and Fakir could feel the years of revulsion he’d harbored for the don rise up to the surface. 

The three men that Fakir had pondered about earlier shook hands with Don Corvo with varying degrees of frostiness. But despite the other men’s indifference, Domenico Corvo made a show of greeting them, saying, “Jimmy Passeridi, Johnny Fringuello, and Hymie Rudzik.* How good it is to see you all! It is not every day that one gets to meet members of the Chicago racket all under one roof.”

Fakir silently gasped at those words. No wonder those men looked familiar; they were the leaders of three of Chicago’s most infamous gangs! He’d seen their faces in the newspaper and had heard of their deeds from other officers in the police force. None of these men were individuals one would want to trifle with. For Don Corvo to convince all three of them to gather under one roof, whatever the reason was, Fakir reasoned, it must have been something of great importance.

“Yeah, it’s swell seeing you as well, Old Man Corvo,” Jimmy Passeridi replied, his thin arms crossed over his chest as he and his men looked on contemptuously. “But who’s this broad? And what is she doin’ here?” Jimmy said, nodding at Rue.

“This,” Don Corvo smiled smugly, “is my daughter, Rue. I’ve brought her along because I have an announcement I’d like to tell all of you about today.”

“Oh?” Johhny Fringuello rubbed his chin and cocked a lecherous brow at Rue. “Well, I gotta say, she’s quite the looker. But before that, shall we get down to the business that we all came for?” 

“Yeah, let’s cut the chitchat and get straight down to it. It’s colder than hell in here, and I want to get this done and over with!” complained Hymie Rudzik, who shuffled his feet impatiently. 

“Very well,” Domenico Corvo made a gesture with his hand to a Corvo gang member who walked up to one of the crates and pried open the lid with a crow bar.

Brushing aside the packing material inside, Fakir could see thick packs of what looked like bags of flour in brown paper bags. The Corvo gangster took out a small knife and cut into one of the paper bags and a white, pearly powder seeped through when the knife was pulled out.

The three Chicago dons walked up to the crate and, taking a small pinch of the powder in between their fingers, put it up to their nose and inhaled deeply. Even before Domenico Corvo spoke, from that action alone Fakir knew what it was that the men were sampling: high-grade cocaine.

“This is the purest cocaine that money can buy, gentlemen, imported directly from South America,” Don Corvo said proudly.

Johhny Fringuello licked his lips, his rat-like eyes still on the packs of cocaine, and said, “I heard through the grapevine that folks in New York were getting their hands on some high grade stuff lately. But I didn’t know it was from you. I’m taking you want to cut a deal with us?”

“Chicago is a big city, and a vast untapped market. It would benefit all of us if, with your assistance, we can get this product onto the streets. Think about it, gentlemen,” Don Corvo whispered enticingly, “the benefit you will reap will make the vault in the Chicago Fed look like a child’s piggy bank!”*

The three Chicago mobster’s eyes lit up at those words. Eagerly, Jimmy Passeridi said, “How much are you askin’ for?”

Behind them, the door of the warehouse creaked open and a figure clad in white stepped in. Fakir watched as Mytho casually walked into his line of sight.

However, there was no sign of Duck, and Fakir had to tell himself to sit tight and wait. It would be suicide to reveal himself right now, one cop in a room full of machine gun toting mobsters.

So he watched as Don Corvo smiled and proclaimed, “I will to leave that part of the negotiation to my new underboss, Mytho.”

The three mob bosses and their underlings looked at each other dubiously as Don Corvo continued, “I am getting on in age, but in the years Mytho has worked for me, he has proven himself a capable and worthy man. He has also been going steady with my daughter for a number of years and the two of them are now engaged. Once they are wedded in a few months time, he will take over the Corvo outfit as the new don.”

Hymie guffawed and spat onto the ground derisively. “Is that your big announcement? You want us to talk business with some baby-faced kid? Are you off your nuts?” he jeered.

“I assure you, gentlemen, both Father and I are completely serious,” Mytho replied as he took off his hat and hand it off to a lackey. “It would be advantageous for both sides if we can strike up a partnership. The world is getting smaller and smaller every day. If we can carve out a piece of it now, there is much we stand to gain.”

“You have a point, sonny,” Johnny Fringuello grinned. “But can we really trust you? I’ve heard that you’ve gotten yourself in some hot water lately, something about a witness you fellas couldn’t flush out.”

The Chicago mobsters chuckled, but Mytho did not flinch. Johnny continued, “If you’re going to be taking over the Corvo crew that doesn’t really inspire a whole lotta confidence, if you know what I mean. We’ll need some reassurance from you as the future Corvo Don if we’re going to throw our lot in with you.”

Mytho glanced at Don Corvo, who looked at the young man expectantly, before Mytho returned his gaze to the dubious mobster.

The white haired mobster answered evenly, “It’s true that we’ve had a bit of trouble recently. But the witness you speak of has already been located. In fact, she’s here right now.”

He gestured to Paul, who went to the door and motioned for his brother.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as Duck was led in by Frankie. With a rough tug, Frankie pulled the blindfold from Duck’s eyes while holding onto her wrists from behind her. Duck struggled a little, but she stopped once the blindfold on her was undone and she blinked fearfully at the ranks of hostile mobsters standing in front of her. 

Seeing Duck, Fakir nearly jumped up from his hiding spot. But before Fakir could make a move, Mytho reached into his jacket and pulled out one of his pistols, its barrel pointed squarely at Duck’s chest. 

Duck’s wide-open eyes flitted from Mytho to the gun and back to the mobster, her face ashen white as Mytho appear to go back on his words.

“As a sign of my sincerity, I will now put your concerns to rest.”

With that, Mytho pulled back on the trigger. A loud “BANG!” echoed through the warehouse as Duck crumpled to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Italian for “Good morning, gentlemen”
> 
> * Passeridi and Fringuello are Italian for sparrow and chaffinch respectively, while Rudzik is Polish for robin. All three of the fictional Chicago gangsters are named after songbirds (as opposed to corvids) and real life Chicago gangsters, i.e. Big Jim Colomiso and Johnny Torrio (both of whom are of Italian descent), and Hymie Weiss (who is of Polish descent).
> 
> *Chicago Fed refers to the Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago, which is operated by the US Department of the Treasury. When I first wrote this sentence I had Don Corvo compare the profit they would reap to the gold in Fort Knox, but when I did a quick search I realized Fort Knox didn’t become a federal gold bullion depository until the 1930’s, a decade after the events of this story. 
> 
> Thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for her help with beta-ing and proofreading!


	22. Chapter 22

“Duck!” Fakir screamed as the red-haired girl collapsed to the floor.

The sound of his voice made the other men look up sharply in surprise.

“What the hell was that?” the Chicago mobster Jimmy Passeridi cried. Looking to Mytho for answers, he instead found himself staring down the barrel of the capo’s gun.

BANG!

In a spray of crimson, Jimmy staggered backward and collapsed with a dull thud onto the ground.

“Boss—!”

Before the members of the Chicago rackets had time to react, the Corvo gang members flipped open the remaining wooden crates around them and pulled out various firearms that had been hidden inside. Then they opened fire.

The rattle of gunfire filled the air as the Corvo men fired upon the Chicago mobsters, whom, completely taken by surprise, scrambled for cover and returned fire.

As chaos erupted around him, a stunned Don Corvo recovered his senses enough to scream, “What are you idiots doing?!”

But the Don’s voice was completely drowned out by the shouts around him and the sound of machine gun fire. A boiling rush of rage welled up in the Don’s face.

Taking his walking stick, he struck the back of one of his lackeys with the heavy handle, knocking the pistol out of the man’s hand.

Towering over him, the Don cursed, “Damn it, who the hell told you to shoot them?!”

“Y-you did, Boss!” the stunned crony answered. “You were the one who ordered us to shoot at ‘em once Principe shot the witness!”

“You fool! I never—!” Don Corvo’s breath froze as he suddenly realized what had happened.

The Don's red eyes glowered with fury. “That traitorous little bastard!”

* * *

As the men in the warehouse scattered for cover, Fakir dashed forward from his hiding spot and scooped up Duck’s body in his arms.

Carrying her behind a row of wooden crates, he pulled open Duck’s coat, expecting to see a bloody wound on her chest, but when he brushed his shaking hand over the sweater she wore, there was no sign of any injury.

_But how—!?_

Fakir frowned with bewilderment. Then realization struck, and his eyes shined with renewed hope.

Cradling Duck in one arm, Fakir shook the unconscious girl with his free hand.

“Duck, wake up! Wake up! Please!”

After a few hard shakes, Duck’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked at him languidly, as his figure came into focus.

“Fa…kir?”

 _What’s Fakir doing here? Am I dreaming?_ Duck wondered hazily. The last thing she remembered was Mytho pointing a gun at her chest. Was all of that a dream too?

However, any notion that she was dreaming was quickly dispelled when Fakir pulled her into a tight embrace and she felt his hot breath against her cheek. The sensation of Fakir’s arms around her snapped Duck out of her dazed state.

Taking a deep, gasping breath, Duck pulled away, her hands clutching Fakir’s arms. “F-Fakir? Fakir, it really is you!” Duck gasped.

Remembering her thoughts from moments earlier, she looked down at herself and ran one hand over the front of her torso. “I-I’m alive! But Mytho, he—!”

“It was a blank,” Fakir explained quickly. “I don’t know why, but the shot he fired towards you was a blank round, and you fainted!”

Duck opened her mouth to speak, but the loud discharge of a shotgun nearby made her shriek out in alarm. Only then did Duck register the din of voices and gunshots in the background.

Huddled against Fakir, she looked to him, confused. “What’s going on?!”

“I’m not sure exactly, either,” Fakir shook his head and pulled out his Colt revolver. “But we have to get out of here, fast!”

The last word had scarcely left Fakir’s lips when Frankie, with a shotgun in one hand, dodged behind the crates, only to find himself face to face with the detective.

Recognizing Fakir, he exclaimed, “You!?”

Reacting quickly, Fakir pushed Duck down to the ground, and before the mobster could raise his gun, fired off a shot, striking the mobster in the right shoulder.

“Gah!” Frankie cried as he fell to the ground, his gun making a loud clattering sound against the concrete floor.

Fakir, hauling Duck to her feet, rushed past Frankie. But the mobster wasn’t down for the count.

Clutching his bleeding shoulder, he cried out, “Boss! That copper from before! He’s here! There’s a cop here!”

“What! A cop?! Where?”

“There’s a cop here!”

News of Fakir’s presence quickly spread amongst the gangsters in the warehouse.

Two Corvo mobsters nearby who had heard Frankie’s cries spied Fakir and Duck as they ran past, and began firing upon the detective, forcing Fakir and Duck to shelter behind the dented frame of an old car. Seeing the Corvo gang members suddenly distracted, however, the besieged Chicago mobsters saw that this was their chance to fight back.

As the fighting intensified, Don Corvo, who had kept himself hidden through all this, made his way to the open backdoor.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Mytho, who until then had been exchanging gunfire with the Chicago gang members, noticed the Don’s hunched figure disappear through the warehouse backdoor. Keeping his profile low, the white haired capo followed suit.

Nearby, Rue had taken refuge behind a pile of discarded car parts, where she sat cowering and terrified.

The former actress could not comprehend what was happening, as it had all happened so fast. One moment she saw Duck fall, and the next gunfire was erupting around her. Her father and Mytho were nowhere to be found, and she was left to fend for herself, without a weapon or protection of any kind.

A sudden flash of movement several feet away caught Rue’s attention, and to her surprise she saw her father shuffle past her. She wanted to cry out for help, but by then the Don had already slipped through the partially opened door. A second flash of movement followed; this time it was Mytho.

Having seen both of them slip through the back of the warehouse, Rue thought it was best for her to follow. Quickly getting on her feet, she made her way out of her hiding spot and towards the door.

Meanwhile, Fakir and Duck were still pinned down by the two Corvo gang members, who had entrenched themselves several yards away behind a pile of old railroad ties. While Fakir returned fire, Duck looked around desperately for an escape route.

As she scanned the unfamiliar building, Duck’s eyes caught sight of Mytho stepping through the doors, followed a few seconds later by Rue.

“Fakir!” Duck tugged at his coat while he hurriedly jammed bullets into his revolver. “I just saw Mytho and Rue! They left through a door in the back!”

At the sound of Mytho’s name, Fakir’s head snapped up and he turned his eyes towards the backdoor that he had entered through.

“Damn it!” Fakir cursed. He was going to lose Mytho if he didn’t follow him, but he and Duck were stuck behind the place they had hidden. Any attempt to step beyond the car frame protecting them from the gunfire would mean almost certain death.

Looking for a diversion, Fakir noticed a pipe running overhead. Taking a closer look, he realized it was a water pipe for the warehouse’s fire sprinkler system. He followed it with his eyes and saw that it ran directly over the two mobster’s heads.

Fakir grimaced with determination. “Duck!”

The shop girl, who was crouching next to him with her hands over her head, looked up at Fakir’s voice.

“Get ready to run when I tell you!” he said, and steadied his hands on the hood of the old car.

Lining up the pipe with the sight on his gun, Fakir took a deep breath and fired at his target. The bullet hit its mark and with a loud hiss, the pipe burst open. A spray of cold water rained down on the men below, and the surprised mobsters stopped shooting briefly.

“Come on!" Fakir grabbed Duck's hand.

With the coast momentarily clear, the two of them sprinted out the backdoor.

Once they were outside, Fakir slammed the door close behind him.

Thinking quickly, he picked up a piece of broken plywood off the ground and jammed one end underneath the doorknob while wedging the other end against the ground. “That ought to hold them off for a little bit,” Fakir said breathlessly.

Above the smoggy horizon, the sun had risen and the small gravel yard they’d entered was empty.

Just as Fakir wondered where Mytho had gone, the sound of gunshots and a woman’s scream rang out from behind the warehouse.

* * *

Having escaped outside, Don Corvo dodged around the warehouse, his breath ragged from exertion.

He came upon a disused congregated metal shed. Its doors were missing, and the shed was empty. As Mytho’s footsteps grew closer, the Don dove inside the shed and hid behind the front corner of the shed, out of Mytho’s line of sight.

When Mytho turned the corner, Don Corvo had vanished. Warily, he stepped towards the shed, gun raised.

Not taking any chances, the Don fired two shots at Mytho.

The bullets missing him by less than an inch, Mytho ducked behind a bare tree stump and fired back at Don Corvo, the bullets ricocheting off the concrete and metal near the shed’s entrance.

When Don Corvo reached out to fire another shot, Rue, who had followed behind Mytho, saw her father raise his weapon towards her lover.

Horrified and confused as to why they were shooting at one another, she ran towards Don Corvo, screaming, “Daddy, no! What are you doing?!”

At the sound of Rue’s voice, Mytho spun around, his eyes wide in alarm. “Rue!”

“Mytho, what’s going on? Why are—ah!”

Rue turned to face Mytho, but her voice was choked off when an arm came up and wrapped around her throat from behind.

Don Corvo, breathing heavily, held his daughter in front of him, and pressed the barrel of his gun into her back. “Don’t struggle, or I'll shoot!” the Don growled in Rue's ear.

“Rue!” Mytho stood up. Raising a gun towards Don Corvo, he demanded icily, “Let her go!”

“Hmph!” Don Corvo sneered contemptuously. “Think you can order me around now? To think, I pinned all my hope and expectations on you, only for you to turn around and _betray_ me! Decades of work, gone! All because of _you_!"

He flicked his head to the side. "Throw away your weapons, traitor! Or do you think I won’t shoot her?!”

To Rue, he hissed venomously, “The two of you have been plotting against me this whole time, haven’t you? First getting your hands in my business, then talking to people behind my back… I should have seen this coming!"

Without hesitation, he yelled bitterly, "Your existence truly is my greatest regret! I should’ve killed you the moment you were born!"

Rue shook her head. “No, Daddy, that’s not true! I--ungh!”

The Don only tightened his chokehold around her neck, making it difficult for her to breathe. Despite his age, the anger and adrenaline coursing through his veins made the Don’s grip surprisingly strong; no matter how much she struggled, Rue could not break his grip. 

“Throw them down, _now_!” Domenico Corvo shouted at Mytho. "Or she dies!"

Knowing Don Corvo was fully willing and capable of carrying out his threat, Mytho wavered for a moment, then, with an expression of disgust on his face, tossed his guns to the ground.

“Heh!” the Don sneered triumphantly.

He whispered into Rue’s ear, “Seems like I have found some use for you yet. Now, both of you can rot in hell!”

With that, the Don shoved her toward Mytho and ran away from the shed, firing off multiple shots at them until the gun made an empty clicking noise. Rue screamed and collapsed against Mytho.

Mytho reached forward, catching her in one arm. Acting quickly, he reached down and grabbed one of his revolvers, and fired at Don Corvo. But Mytho’s bullets failed to stop the Don, who disappeared around a corner.

With Don Corvo gone, Mytho turned his attention back to Rue, who was gasping in pain. Cradling Rue’s body in one arm, Mytho looked down and saw a bullet wound on the calf of her right leg; the blood had already soaked into the gravel.

“Rue!”

Mytho's head snapped up at Duck’s voice. The red haired girl appeared around the corner of the warehouse, followed by Fakir.

The detective caught a glimpse of Don Corvo’s retreating figure in the distance, and was about to follow him when Duck’s frantic voice drew his attention back to the scene before him, and his eyes alighted on Mytho. Meanwhile, Duck had knelt down next to the injured Rue and switched places with Mytho to cradle her.

Mytho shoved his gun back into his holster and pulled out a clean handkerchief from a pocket. He pressed it into the wound on Rue’s leg to staunch the bleeding, causing her to cry out once again.

“You’re alright, Rue,” Duck whispered, taking Rue’s hand and squeezing it comfortingly. “You’ll be okay!”

While Duck did her best to calm Rue, Mytho took off his belt and tied the improvised tourniquet below Rue’s right knee. He then turned to Duck. “Duck, do you have a handkerchief?”

Duck nodded quickly, and rummaging through her pockets with her free hand, she eventually found what he asked for and handed it to Mytho.

Accepting the handkerchief, Mytho took Duck’s hand and placed it over Rue’s wound. “Keep applying pressure while I tie it in place.”

While Duck did as she was instructed, Mytho rolled Duck’s handkerchief into a long coil and tied it around the blood-soaked handkerchief.

By the time Mytho finished, Rue’s breathing had steadied. The former actress’s face was pale and her hands were clammy, but both Mytho and Duck breathed a sigh of relief when they saw that the size of the blood spot on the handkerchief had stopped growing, signaling that the bleeding had stopped.

But Duck’s sense of relief was short-lived. Behind her, she heard the now familiar sound of a gun being cocked. When her eyes shot up, she saw Fakir with his gun raised and pointed at Mytho.

“Fakir!” Duck wanted to reason with Fakir, and Rue tried to push herself up in alarm, but Mytho’s hands on their shoulders gave the two girls pause.

Calmly, the fair-haired man stood up to face his old friend.

“Drop your weapon,” Fakir ordered thickly.

Mytho silently complied, placing the gun he carried back on the ground.

Shifting her gaze from Mytho to Fakir, Duck could see that the detective’s normally verdant eyes were now a dangerous shade of dark emerald. Pain, bitterness, betrayal, sorrow, and confusion: all of those emotions flitted through Fakir’s eyes in that moment. There was nothing she, or anyone else, could say that would placate him, Duck realized.

 _Please, Fakir, don’t do something you will one day regret!_ She prayed silently while she and Rue nervously watched Mytho meet Fakir’s fiery gaze.

“Why did you betray Don Corvo, Mytho?” Fakir demanded. “What exactly are you planning?”

Mytho smiled, and in the capo’s golden eyes Duck saw a weariness she had never seen before. “I wanted to live in a world where I was surrounded by love, Fakir. Domenico Corvo promised me the adoration of all those who lived in the darkness if I followed him. For a time I believed him, thinking that I would be one to shine brightest in the darkness he had created. But it was a lie.”

The smile on Mytho’s face disappeared, and his hands clenched into fists. “There is no love in the darkness: only fear, jealousy, and greed. The one exception to this was Rue; but like me, she was just another puppet being manipulated by Don Corvo's hidden strings. The only way we can be truly freed from that darkness is by destroying the Corvo organization at its source.”

“But why do you want me here?” Fakir snapped, his gun still aimed at Mytho’s chest. “Why the elaborate ruse? First the photograph, then the book—why bring me, and Duck, into all this?”

“Because it was you, Fakir, or rather,” Mytho replied solemnly, “what had been inflicted upon you, that awakened me to the monstrosity I had become entangled in." He looked directly into Fakir's eyes. "Have you ever wanted to know the identities of the men who killed your parents?”

Fakir’s eyes widened at the question and the scowl on his lips deepened. “Are you saying…?" 

“Yes," Mytho nodded. "I know who they are.”

Mytho recalled a warm summer night in the back of a speakeasy. Some members of the Corvo gang were in a festive mood, and had decided to book a joint for a party. Dozens of Corvo associates were in attendance, and Mytho, as a trusted confidant of Don Corvo and newly named successor to Taccola, the Don’s former right-hand man, had also been invited.

While his fellow mobsters drank the night away in the company of beautiful women and lively jazz music, Mytho dispassionately watched the gaggle of inebriated mobsters from his seat in a corner table, secretly mulling over his own thoughts, when a tall figure stopped in front of him.

“What’s eating you? Nobody’s got business lookin’ down in a swell juice joint like this!”

Looking up, Mytho saw that the speaker was Angelo Gazze, a capo who was a long time member of the Corvo outfit.* As a senior gang member, his reputation for efficiency and violence was well known within the mafia world. The two of them had met in the past, but only briefly, and they had never spoken to one another.

Mytho remained guarded as he smiled coolly, taking a sip of his drink. “Just thinking about things…”

Angelo Gazze's scanned the younger capo, sizing him up as he pulled out a chair and sat down next to him. Then he said, “There ain’t no use thinking too much, kid. People call you ‘Principe’, right? Fancy name, that. But names aren’t given to people just for the hell of it. The Don recently picked you to be Taccola’s replacement, and that comes with history you oughta know about.”

Angelo raised his hand to a passing waiter. After ordering a glass of bourbon, he turned back to Mytho. “I don’t suppose you know that much about Taccola, do ya?”

The mention of Taccola conjured memories of men in black coats, standing like grim reapers in the stark headlights of a car.

Mytho closed his eyes against those thoughts, and took a large gulp of the scotch in his glass. “No, I don’t.”

“He and I did quite a few jobs together, back in the day,” Gazze asked. “Anyone’s ever told you about them?”

Mytho returned Gazze’s gaze warily. The waiter returned with the bourbon Gazza had ordered, and after the waiter was out of earshot, Mytho cautiously answered, “No. Should I?”

“Heh,” Angelo Gazze smirked, and took a sip from his glass. “If you did, then whoever told you ought to be taken for a ride! People in our line of business—we don’t talk much about the past. History is something we can’t change.” Gazze paused, staring at Mytho. “But that doesn't mean we can't learn from it.”

Seeing the mystified look on Mytho’s face, Gazze laughed. “Lemme ask you this: what’s the most powerful thing that influences what a man does in our line of work?”

“Loyalty,” Mytho answered without hesitation, his brows still pulled together in puzzlement.

“Wrong answer!”

Mytho blinked. “But…”

“Loyalty and duty only come after the first and most powerful thing: love. It always wins out over them in the end. Man is an emotional species, after all.

"But ya see... that's why love is our greatest enemy,” Gazze said darkly. “It makes us weak and sentimental; it makes us hesitate. It makes us choose to die when we could've lived. There is no place for it in our line of work, kid. The sooner you can leave it behind, the easier it will be.”

Meeting Gazze’s eyes, Mytho said, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want you to make the same mistake that Taccola and I did when we were young,” Gazze answered forebodingly, and the young capo could see the hardness in the experienced mobster’s eyes.

Scanning his surrounding to make sure he would not be overheard, Gazze began, “Many years ago, we were given this job by the Don. There was a bookseller in the Bronx at the time who refused to pay his dues, and was trying to encourage others to do the same. It was making the Don look bad, so he wanted us to do a hit on him.”

While Gazze paused to take a gulp of his drink, Mytho frowned as something Gazze just said pricked at his memory.

_A bookseller? Why does that sound familiar?_

“Taccola and I kicked our way in, but he tried to put up a fight. We both had shotguns with us, so we fired at him, and took him out with our first shots,” Gazze continued, not noticing Mytho was preoccupied with tracking down a thread in his own memory.

_Bookseller…bookseller…_

_“…My Papa was a bookseller…”_

In Mytho’s memory, a boy with a horribly disfigured back and seething green eyes whispered amidst the crying cicadas on a hot summer afternoon.

Mytho’s eyes widened as he recalled the boy in his memory standing with his hands clutching his shirt, his voice filled with far too much pain for a child to bear.

_“…They killed him…and my Mama…”_

“But then his son came rushing out, screaming ‘Papa! Papa!’ And instead of silencing him immediately, Taccola hesitated," Gazze scoffed. "That gave the bookseller’s old lady time to grab the kid. They tried to make a run for it, so I—”

“You shot them.”

The words from Mytho cut short a surprised Gazze. Annoyed that he had been interrupted, the older mobster was going to rebuke his junior when he saw the look in Mytho’s eyes. The pale haired capo was staring straight at him, eyes wide and the intensity of his gaze made Gazze feel as if Mytho could see right through him. It suddenly made Gazze feel vulnerable, like a mouse that had exposed itself in front of the golden eyes of a bird of prey. 

Clearing his throat, Gazze hastily looked away and said with bravado, “Damn right, I did! By the time my shells hit the floor, all three of ‘em were layin’ in a heap together.

"Taccola was rattled and panicking at that point. He was chompin’ at the bits to leave, and I wasn’t keen on sticking around either. So instead of checking to make sure the job had been completed, we grabbed the lye that we originally intended to use to disfigure the bodies, and just haphazardly dumped it on them. Then, we got outta there as fast as we could, in case one of the neighbors called the cops on us.

“For a while afterward, we thought we had made a clean job of it. But later, we found out that the kid made it out alive. The Don was furious with us, berating us for failing to bump off a little kid," Gazze said, shuddering at the memory of his terrifying rebuke. "Luckily for us, the brat couldn’t identify either of us, and the case got shelved.”

“Did Father…did the Don know that there was a child there?” Mytho asked with icy calmness, his hand on the table clenching into a tight fist.

Finishing the liquor in his glass, Gazze cocked an eyebrow. “Of course! Our information on them was thorough. He explicitly told us to shoot everyone in the house. Children or not, the Don wouldn't have given it a second thought.”

Placing his empty glass down on the table, the older gangster stood up to leave. “It don’t matter who your target is; if the Don has his eyes on them, our job is to take that eyesore out. Taccola did pretty well for himself during his time on this Earth, but it was only because of dumb luck that he got out of a balled up job, and he nearly dragged me down with him.”

Angelo Gazze turned to Mytho, but the young capo did not respond, only staring blankly down at the table. If it had been anyone else, Gazze would’ve taken being ignored like that as an affront. But the look in Mytho’s eyes earlier gave him pause.

Instead, he sneered. “You’re taking Taccola’s place, but don’t make the same mistakes he did, or else you’ll end up sharing his fate.”

Mytho did not react to Gazze’s departure. He simply sat there, unblinking for a long time as the full weight of the revelation settled within him.

When Mytho agreed to serve Domenico Corvo, he knew being brutally efficient was a hallmark of being a Corvo gang member. He no longer batted an eye when it came to shooting down rival gang members and snitches. For Mytho, it was possible to rationalize such acts of violence as an act of survival, as a way to carve out a future for himself in the dark underworld of the mafia.

But to willfully attempt the murder of a child who had done them no wrong? And of all people, it had been Fakir, the friend who stood by him and supported him throughout his childhood...

Mytho inhaled a shuddering breath. To think that he was in league with the people who had taken the lives of Fakir’s parents, and tried to murder Fakir…

There was only one word that could be used to describe people who would commit such a crime.

Mytho recalled a distant summer day from another lifetime ago. The air was warm and humid in the peaceful town of Nordlingen, and many of the local boys had gone swimming in the pond outside town. He and Fakir, who had been friends for a few months now, were there too.

While the other children played and horsed around in the cool water, Fakir was content on spending his afternoon reading under the shade of a nearby tree. Mytho lay on the grass next to him, staring sleepily up at the thick leaves above.

One of the boys in the pond spied them in their spot under the tree, and waved at them. “Hey, you two! Come on! The water’s nice and cool here! It’s a whole lot better than sitting under that tree!”

Unimpressed, Fakir merely looked up and shrugged. “I’ll pass.”

“Aww, come on, Fakir! What are you afraid of? Don’t tell me you can’t swim!” another boy shouted, goading him to join them.

Fakir made a face, but said nothing as he flipped a page of the book he was reading.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a dip, Fakir?” Mytho asked, propping himself up on his elbow. He looked at the book in Fakir’s lap skeptically. “You’ve read that book three times already. It wouldn’t hurt to put it down for the day.”

Fakir’s brows furrowed, and he shook his head stubbornly. “You go ahead, Mytho. I don’t want to.”

“Oh…well, I’ll pass too,” Mytho sighed resignedly, and laid back down on the grass.

While Mytho and Fakir relaxed under the tree, two of the boys who had been playing in the pond exchanged a devilish look with one another. One of them climbed out of the pond and tiptoed around the tree to come up behind Mytho and Fakir. Then, once he was within arm’s reach, the boy snatched the book Fakir had been reading out of his hands.

“Hey! Give that back!” Fakir sprang to his feet, and made to grab the book back out of the other boy’s hand. But Fakir was a foot shorter than the other boy, who held Fakir off easily as he flipped the book open to examine it.

“What’s so great about this book? It’s just a silly detective novel! Hey, Eddie!” The boy looked to his friend in the pond and with a mischievous grin, called out, “Tell me if you can see what’s so great about this book!”

Eddie reached up to catch the book his buddy tossed his way. “Got it—Ougf!”

Before Eddie barely had a chance to close his fingers around the book, Fakir tackled him, sending them both crashing into the pond in a giant splash of water.

Mytho watched, aghast, as all this took place. He only came to his senses after Fakir resurfaced and grabbed the book floating on the surface of the pond. Shaking himself from his stupor, Mytho quickly waded into the pond and helped pull Fakir to shore. Behind them, the other children laughed and hollered at the scene that had just taken place.

Mytho grimaced, as the bottom of his trousers was completely soaked. In comparison, Fakir was dripping wet from head to toe, but he seemed to not care about his drenched state, only that he had his treasured book back in his possession.

“You should dry your clothes off, Fakir…” Mytho said weakly, looking at his friend’s sorry state, but Fakir only shook his head again.

“Not here,” the dark haired boy said tersely, and taking the mystified Mytho by the hand, the two hiked away from the pond to a secluded stand of trees. After looking around to make sure there was no one nearby, Fakir gently placed his book on the grass.

With his hands on the bottom of his shirt, Fakir looked uncharacteristically hesitantly at Mytho. “Turn around and don’t look until I tell you, okay?” 

A little confused, Mytho nodded, and did as his friend asked.

While Fakir took off his shirt to wring it off, Mytho kicked off his shoes and squeezed several fat drops of water from the bottom of his trousers. The warm air made the damp fabric cling to Mytho’s skin, and he made a face at the icky sensation.

 _Looks like we took a dip in the pond after all,_ Mytho sighed internally.

With his back still to Fakir, he knelt down next to the book, and picking it up gently, carefully thumbed through the wet pages. “That wasn’t very nice of them, but I don’t understand why you like this book so much either, Fakir. What’s so great about it?”

Having reached the end of the book, Mytho noticed a line of writing on the cover, and this gave him pause.

_To our son, Fakir. Happy Birthday._

Surprised by the writing, Mytho momentarily forgot about his promise. Turning to his friend, Mytho began to say, “Fakir, is this…” when his eyes alighted on his friend’s bare back.

At first Mytho was confused by what he saw, as the shadows from the trees around them cast shapes where there should have been none. It wasn’t until Mytho blinked that the outline of the pale scar on Fakir’s back came into focus. The swatch of distorted scar tissue looked like a mark left by a terrible beast that had clawed its way across bare flesh. 

Having never witnessed such extensive scar tissue before, Mytho was left stunned and speechless. His gaze was only broken when Fakir quickly pulled his damp shirt back over his shoulders, his fists balled up around the fabric.

“Fakir, what happened to your back?” Mytho gasped in shock.

Above them, cicadas began to cry. Slowly, Fakir turned around to face Mytho, and the white haired boy was taken aback by the pain he saw in his friend’s eyes and in the taunt line of his drawn lips.

“I got these scars the night…my parents were killed,” Fakir said, his voice barely audible above the weeping cicadas.

“What?” Mytho exclaimed softly.

Although he had met Fakir’s cousin Rachel and her parents before, he had never once heard Fakir talk about his own parents. From the hushed words of the adults around him, Mytho knew that Fakir had come to Nordlingen to live with his cousin’s family because his parents had died.

Being an orphan himself, Mytho could understand how difficult it could be for Fakir to talk about his parents, and had never broached the subject. But Fakir’s words alarmed Mytho. 

_Killed? What does he mean by that?_

When Fakir did not respond, Mytho thought that was all Fakir was willing to tell him. Just as Mytho wondered what he should say next, Fakir spoke up again, his grip around his shirt so tight that his knuckles turned white.

“My Papa was a bookseller. He never bothered anybody! But…one night, they came to our house, and they…they killed him! And my Mama…they killed her too! She protected me, but I…!”

Here Fakir’s strangled words faded and his gaze faltered, drifting to stare mournfully at the ground.

At a loss for words, Mytho asked the one question that came to mind.

“Who’s…‘they’? Who did this to you?”

Fakir slowly looked up and the pain in his eyes changed into an intense hatred that sent a disquieting shiver up Mytho’s spine.

“Monsters…” Fakir said through clinched teeth.

“Monsters? But…” Mytho wasn’t sure whether to believe Fakir, but the other boy shook his head firmly, unshakable in his belief.

“They were monsters all right! They wore black coats, and carried long, black guns. They traveled in the night, terrorizing people wherever they went.”

Grimly, Fakir walked up to Mytho and picked up the book that had been drying on the grass. Hugging it against his chest, the young boy said with unwavering conviction to his friend, “One day I will become a detective, and when I do, I will find the monsters that killed my parents. Even if it’s the last thing I do, Mytho, I will find them, and I will make the monsters pay for what they’ve done!”

"Monsters…"

In the clamor of the speakeasy, the word hung heavily in the air. Mytho looked down at his opened hands, his amber eyes quivering as a thought wafted through his mind. 

_Have I become a monster as well?_ _A bloodthirsty monster that murders people without mercy? A monster that is willing to kill even innocent children for its own gains?_

This sickening epiphany, combined with the heat and noise of the crowded speakeasy, washed over Mytho in a nauseous wave. Cupping his hand over his mouth, Mytho stood up shakily and threaded his way through the crowd on unsteady feet towards the bathroom.

Staggering into the closet-size room, Mytho latched the door shut while a lamp nestled in a red glass fixture overhead cast a red glow over the room. He turned on the tap and repeatedly splashed cool water over his face in an attempt to wash away the feeling of revulsion twisting his stomach. Heedless of the water dampening his shirt and sleeves, he continued until he was forced to pause for air.

Breathing heavily, Mytho looked up at his reflection in the mirror above the sink and saw his eyes staring back at him with a grotesque blood-red shine.

 _Yes, you are one of us now…_ The red eyed being staring back at him whispered, gleefully echoing the words Don Corvo once said to him. _You are a creature who stalks the night…there is no future for you back in the light…_

Mytho shook his head violently in a vain attempt to push away those thoughts, wet strands of his hair sending beads of water flying through the air. But the reflection in the mirror persisted, its chortle filling Mytho’s ears. The crimson room seemed to close in around him, like the maw of a ravenous beast.

_Angelo Gazze is right; a monster has no need for a heart…You can have it all if you let the darkness consume you, just like it did to Don Corvo!_

“No!”

In a loud “crash”, the mirror—and the monster within it—shattered into hundreds of fragments at the force of Mytho’s fist.

“I am…I am _not_ a monster!” Mytho screamed, his quivering voice echoed in the small room as he panted for breath.

But the truth remained that he was trapped in a world of killers and thieves. He could not simply walk away with zero repercussions. Even if he could leave, Gazze was right about one thing: Mytho could not change the past. His crimes would follow him until the end of his days, and there was little hope for a peaceful death for someone like him.

 _It’s all because of Domenico Corvo! He is the real monster!_ Mytho gnashed his teeth. _He was the one who murdered Fakir’s parents, and he is now pulling me into his lair, to make me one of them!_

Pulling away his bloodied fist, the reflection of his eyes in the shattered mirror glowed golden with a fervent thought. _If I am fated to die in the darkness, then at least I will take the Corvos down with me! I will not let the Corvos consume me!_

Mytho’s thoughts turned once again to the words Gazze had spoken earlier. “This heart of mine…it might already be broken and blemished, but I will not give it to them. If I am to discard my heart, it will be for the ultimate downfall of the Corvos.

“I will get Fakir his revenge; I will become a monster in order to destroy the larger monster from within! Even if I have to shatter my own heart in the process, I will take down the Corvos!”

In the cold, shaded courtyard, three pairs of eyes looked on with disbelief as Mytho concluded his tale.

Seeing their incredulous faces, a weary smile returned to Mytho’s lips. “That was two years ago. With Taccola already dead, I originally wanted to take out Gazze, too, to avenge Fakir’s parents. But a month after Gazze told me his story, he was killed in an ambush by a rival family. So your parents' killers are already dead, Fakir.

"However, Taccola's and Gazze’s deaths alone were not enough to atone for all the pain and suffering the Corvos have inflicted these many decades. I knew true justice could only be fulfilled when Domenico Corvo, the mastermind behind everything, was brought to his knees.

“My chance came when Don Corvo told me he intended to forge an empire that spanned from New York to Chicago, and make the Don of the Corvo family the 'Boss of Bosses' of the entire North Eastern US.* To achieve this, he planned to use cocaine distribution as a way to worm his way into the organization of the Chicago families, and once he’s established a monopoly, gradually extend his influence until he was able to control their operations.

“He charged me with transporting and guarding the cocaine that was smuggled in from Cuba for distribution in the Chicago area, with the idea that I would become his successor and the de-facto leader of this operation. That responsibility also gave me a great deal of autonomy to act and organize things on my own, which I used to my advantage. I was able to convince the men working under me that Don Corvo’s plan was to hide weapons amongst the cocaine and use them to eliminate the Chicago rackets.

"Secrecy was of the utmost importance, but Rue’s proximity to me made it very difficult to keep everything secret from her. So I began to distance myself from her, and tried to forget my love for her.”

At the mention of her name, Rue’s heart clenched and she shifted her gaze to the ground. However, what Mytho said next made the raven-haired woman’s eyes lift back up in surprise.

“But that wasn’t the only reason why I distanced myself from her. The possibility of discovery was always there, and I…I did not want to drag Rue down with me.”

Her ruby eyes quivering, Rue watched as Mytho continued quietly, his downcast eyes partially hidden by his snow-white locks. “I tried to distance myself from her, not only to steel myself for what I was about to do, but in the event that my plan failed, to prevent the Don from suspecting her of complicity. This way, she could claim honest ignorance of my intentions, and her father might spare her from harm. It would also hopefully spare her any deep sorrow from my death, should I fail to accomplish my goal.”

“Mytho…” Rue whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.

In front of Rue, Mytho sighed. “It took me months to put my plan into motion, and for a time, everything went the way I had predicted. But then, something totally unexpected happened…”

“Duck…” Fakir finished Mytho’s sentence, and the white haired man nodded in affirmation.

Turning his eyes to the red haired girl, Mytho said apologetically, “I’m sorry I scared you back there, Duck. I didn’t want to get you involved, but Don Corvo discovered your connection to me through Elsa. He had grown suspicious in the days leading up to this, and wanted to use you as a final test of my allegiance. With my goal so close at hand, I could not risk him becoming suspicious of my true intentions.”

“That’s…” Duck’s lip parted to speak, but Fakir, with his revolver still fixed on Mytho, spoke up.

“You brought me here to see the fall of the Corvos, Mytho, but in the process you’ve become just as ruthless as Domenico Corvo himself!” Fakir yelled in frustration. “It doesn’t make you any different from the monster you’re trying to destroy!”

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Mytho responded back without hesitation. “Which is why there is a second reason why I wanted you to be here, Fakir.”

Mytho calmly locked eyes with his former friend. “Once Domenico Corvo is dead, I want you to decide whether if I too have become a monster, and if I should pay for my crimes with my death.”

The gun in Fakir’s hands lowered a fraction as the detective reacted with shock to Mytho’s words. The white clad man touched his heart and said solemnly, “For a long time, I dared not think about my future after the demise of Domenico Corvo. Even though I was ready to discard my heart to accomplish my goals, it was far easier to believe that I would not come out of it alive and to ignore the prospect of a future.

“But after I met you that night at the opera, Fakir, I found that I could no longer run away from that question of what I would’ve become. I realized that you, as the person who knew me best before I started on this path, and as a man of the law, would make the best judge of whether I’ve strayed too far to be saved. My task is not yet complete, but once it is, I promise you I will embrace your judgment, whatever your decision might be.”

Duck’s eyes darted from Mytho to Fakir. She could not see Fakir’s eyes, as they were blocked by the shadow from his long, dark bangs. Suddenly, the gun in his hands dropped to his side, and in a move no one saw coming, Fakir took two wide strides forward and raised his hand.

_SLAP!_

The sound of Fakir’s palm against Mytho’s face echoed briefly in the cold, morning air. Mytho took a jerking step backward, his cheek flushing pink from where Fakir’s hand had made contact.

“You _idiot_!” Fakir yelled at Mytho, who, for the first time since Duck had met him, wore a wide-eyed look of surprise on his face. “What are you _thinking_? I am not a judge or jury! I _refuse_ to make this decision!”

Grabbing Mytho’s shoulder, Fakir pulled Mytho forward and declared, “Your life is your own; you have to make the choices yourself! I will not make it for you!”

Mytho blinked mutely at Fakir several times before his shoulders relaxed. Closing his eyes, Mytho smiled gratefully, and in a quiet voice, said, “Thank you, Fakir.”

Fakir said nothing except to let out an angry huff. He let go of Mytho and returned to Duck’s side.

Touching her arm, he said urgently, “We need to get out of here, quick. There’s no telling when they’ll come looking for us,” Fakir said, nodding his chin towards the warehouse next door. The sound of distant gunshots had ceased, and it was impossible to say which side had come out victorious.

Duck nodded once, but looked worriedly at Rue, who was still resting in her arms. “But we can’t leave Rue here…” Squeezing the other woman’s hand, Duck said to her, “Rue, do you think you can walk?”

“I…I’ll try,” Rue swallowed, and with Duck and Mytho’s help, gingerly got back on her feet. But when she tried to put weight on her injured leg, she cried out in pain and nearly collapsed to the ground again.

Realizing Rue would need something to support her weight, Mytho turned and picked up the cane that Don Corvo had dropped earlier inside the shed. “Here, use this.”

He helped Rue steady herself, letting her wrap one arm around his shoulders for support while she balanced herself with the walking stick.

Rue looked up at Mytho, her eyes wavering and unsure. But before anything could be said between them, the sound of a door being violently kicked open and loud male voices came from the warehouse.

“Check the yard and every nook and cranny that you see! I saw that white haired bastard slip out! I’ll make him die a slow, painful death for setting me up!” The voice of Hymie Rudzik could be heard shouting as the sound of feet on hard gravel quickly approached them.

To Duck and Rue, Fakir whispered urgently, revolver at the ready, “Quick! Hide! We’ll hold them off!”

While Duck helped a limping Rue to hide in the shed, Fakir and Mytho situated themselves behind an abandoned piece of machinery nearby that faced the direction of where the mobsters were approaching. No sooner had they ducked down, three Chicago mobsters rounded the corner into the yard were they were gathered only moments earlier.

Taking the initiative, the detective and the former capo opened fire on the gangsters, hitting Hymie Rudzik in the arm and sending him reeling to the floor. Taken by surprise, Rudzik’s two goons dove back around the corner for cover and the two sides began exchanging fire.

Bullets and casings ricocheted off the stone and metal surfaces as the two sides fired at each other. Fakir and Mytho covered for one another, alternating between firing and reloading to maintain pressure on their pursuers.

Just as the gunfight had reached a stalemate, Fakir heard the distant wailing of a police siren. The mobsters evidently heard it too, and quickly decided that revenge was not worth getting caught by the police. Rudzik’s men pulled their injured boss to his feet, and firing off a few more shots at Fakir and Mytho’s position, made a hasty getaway back around the warehouse.

Once the coast was clear, Mytho and Fakir cautiously looked out from behind their metal fortification. Rue and Duck too, carefully emerged from their hiding place.

As Mytho helped Rue back to her feet, a trail of blood on the gravel caught his eye. Unlike Rudzik and his men, whom Mytho had watched run back around the corner, this trail traveled away from the shed towards a small group of adjacent buildings next to the Calumet River. Realizing the shots he fired at Don Corvo earlier had in fact found their mark, Mytho’s eyes narrowed.

By now the sound of sirens had grown louder and louder. Knowing there was no time to waste, Mytho gingerly unwrapped Rue’s arm from his shoulder and stepped towards the river. “The three of you should get out of here!” To Duck, he asked, “Duck, please take care of Rue for me.”

With that, Mytho began to turn away. But Duck stepped in front of Mytho and said with concern, “Wait! Mytho, where are you going?”

Realizing what Mytho was thinking, Fakir said as he too blocked Mytho’s path, “You’re planning to go after Don Corvo, aren’t you?”

Rue’s grip on the cane tightened while Mytho grimaced. He tried to walk around Duck, towards the edge of the yard that bordered the river. But the young woman refused to give up, and followed Mytho.

“I won’t let you go, Mytho! It’s too dangerous!”

Fakir followed suit, and said stubbornly, “I won’t let you go either, Mytho!”

Exhaling a deep breath in frustration, and with the pressure of police sirens in his ears, Mytho turned sharply to Duck. “I’m sorry, Duck. But I have to do this!”

Thinking Mytho was going to argue with her, Duck was not prepared when, with a quick shove, he pushed her into the freezing water of the Calumet River.*

“Wah!” With a splash, Duck disappeared into the brackish water, only to emerge seconds later, gasping for air. Threading water awkwardly, Duck thrashed in the cold water, her hands grasping helplessly at the surface.

On the side of the river, Fakir gasped and rushed to the ledge where Duck had fallen from. In the split second that Fakir was distracted, Mytho turned and ran. Torn between going after Mytho or Duck, Fakir cursed loudly and began to remove his coat. As Duck continued to struggle, her wet clothes impeding her movement, Fakir jumped in feet first into the river after her.

Rue watched as Fakir dove into the river after Duck. Like Fakir, Rue was caught between her concern for Duck and her desire to follow Mytho. After a moment of intense deliberation, she turned away from the river’s edge after Mytho.

Hobbling on her injured leg, Rue gritted her teeth against the pain as she struggled to catch up to him.

“Ungh...Mytho, wait!”

At the sound of her voice, Mytho paused, and he said to her, “Rue, please don’t try to stop me! I—!”

“That’s...not what I want...to say, Mytho!” Rue interrupted him as she grasped his arm, her chest heaving with exertion as she gasped with pain. “Daddy…no! He’s not my father anymore!” Rue shook her head. “He might’ve conceived me...he might have raised me...but he never _loved_ me!”

Recalling the Don’s poisonous words earlier, Rue fought back a sob. “He only ever saw me as a tool…as something to be used. When he tried to kill me…it made me see him as the monster that he really is!”

Taking a hold of Mytho’s sleeve, Rue begged, “You are all I have now, Mytho! It’s too dangerous, going after him! The police are on their way!” The former actress grimaced as pain continued to shoot up her injured leg. “We should try to get away...while we still can!”

Mytho placed his hand over Rue’s, and with a tenderness that Rue had not felt in many months, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rue, but I can’t let him go! When I joined this family, I made an oath. I promised to protect your family, which included you and Don Corvo. But when I saw him using your affection for him to manipulate you, to hurt you…”

He squeezed Rue’s hand, his expression full of anger and determination. “You are the only person in the Corvo family who has shown me genuine love and affection, and to me you are the only Corvo I will ever protect. As long as Don Corvo is alive, you will always live in his shadow; you will never be truly free. That’s why, in order to free both of us from the darkness, Domenico Corvo must die!”

“But you—! You might get _killed_!” Rue tightened her grip on Mytho’s arm, tears now falling from her eyes.

Seeing the tear trails running down her face, Mytho gently brushed the tears away. Softly, he said, “I won’t. Everything that’s happened so far…I believe Fate has something, some sort of future, in store for me.”

He smiled at her. “I will not waste the second chance that Fakir has given me. I will come back alive, I promise.”

As they spoke, police cars pulled up to the front of the warehouse. Mytho and Rue looked up in alarm when they heard the sound of car doors being opened and closed and the voices of police officers conversing loudly.

With great urgency, Mytho said to Rue, “There’s a small boat moored to a jetty some two hundred yards from here,” he quickly pointed to a point behind another set of warehouses by the river. “Go and hide there for the time being. I will come find you after it’s all over!”

“You promise?” Rue said, still reluctant to leave.

Mytho gave her a firm nod, and Rue at last relented. Cupping his face with her free hand, she gave him a quick kiss on his lips, then hobbled as quickly as she could in the direction he’d pointed.

With Rue gone, Mytho turned his focus back to his quarry. He followed the blood trail from the shed to a small garage not far from the warehouse as the voices of police officers drew closer. 

Knowing Don Corvo had fired all of the bullets in his pocket pistol, Mytho kicked the door. The flimsy lock on the wooden door gave way with a crack. His guns cocked, Mytho cautiously glanced inside the room.

The interior of the garage was dim, and the smell of gasoline and oil hung heavily in the air. The floor was wet and slick, and other than an old, stripped down Model T, some scattered tools on a shelf, a workbench, and some canisters, there was no obvious sign of anything or anyone else inside. Not knowing where the old man might be hiding, Mytho gingerly stepped inside, his finger on the trigger.

Out of the corner of his eyes, a flash of movement came towards Mytho. Instinctively, he raised his arm to shield his face as a foul liquid splashed onto him. Coughing from the strong odor, it took Mytho a second to recognize that the fluid was gasoline.

“Don’t move!” Don Corvo’s raspy voice hissed from the darkness.

When Mytho lowered his arm, he saw a pair of fiendish red eyes glowering at him from behind the workbench next to the door. Don Corvo stood up from his hiding place in the gloom, and in the pale morning light Mytho could make out a dark trail of blood drip down the Don’s hand from a wound on his left arm.

Mytho raised his gun at Don Corvo, but the Don pulled out a lighter and held it threateningly above the floor. It was only then that Mytho realized that Don Corvo had also doused the floor with gasoline.

"If I'm going down, you're coming with me!" The once powerful mafia boss screamed with rage. Just as Mytho pulled back on the trigger, Don Corvo dropped the lighter on the ground. “Burn in hell!”

* * *

“Duck!” Fakir cried as he swam towards to the struggling young woman.

“Fa-mmf! Ha! Fakir!” Duck choked and coughed as her head bobbed up and down in the murky water.

She tried to tread water to keep afloat, but her thick winter clothes, and especially her woolen coat, were taking on water. The excessive weight and bone numbing temperature were taking their toll, fast. Duck tried to reach for Fakir, but her body was shivering uncontrollably, and she was beginning to have a hard time keeping her face above the water.

Thankfully, before she became fully submerged, Fakir managed to grab onto her shirt collar and pull her back up. The cold quickly numbing his limbs as well, Fakir managed to push off the thick coat from Duck’s shoulders. Without the added weight getting in the way, he pulled her towards the trash-strewn shore.

Shivering, filthy, and wet, Fakir helped Duck get back on shore. Heedless of his own well-being, he grabbed the coat that he had dropped on the bank of the river and pulled it tightly over Duck’s shoulders.

But Duck continued to shiver violently as she breathed in and out at a rapid pace. Realizing Duck was beginning to suffer hypothermia, Fakir drew the coat apart and pressed the shuddering young woman tightly to his chest. He then wrapped the coat over the two of them, hoping his body heat would help warm her.

This approach seemed to help, and as sensation returned painfully to their numb fingers and extremities, Duck’s rapid breathing began to slow.

Wrapping her arms around Fakir’s torso for warmth, she asked through chattering teeth, “Fa-Fakir…w-w-where’s M-Mytho?”

“I…I don’t know…” Fakir admitted as the brigade of police officers who had arrived on the scene finally spotted them.

Seeing they had been found, Fakir began to breathe a little easier when a loud explosion suddenly rocked the shore where they sat. Throwing themselves against the ground, Duck and Fakir huddled together as bits of wood and metallic debris from the blast rained down over the surrounding area. After several seconds, Fakir cracked opened an eye and saw a dark plume of smoke rising from the other side of the warehouse.

Duck, too, saw the bellowing smoke. Tugging at Fakir’s shirt, she cried out in alarm, “Oh no! Mytho! Rue!”

Fakir grimaced. He didn’t want to believe Mytho was involved in that blast, but Fakir had briefly seen Mytho run in that direction, and was likely nearby when the blast went off. In his arms, Duck had begun to cry, fearing the worst for the two people whom, despite the circumstances, she had began to regard as friends.

As more police poured into the area around the explosion, Fakir and Duck’s presence were briefly forgotten in the mayhem. Sitting on the bank of the cold river, Fakir gently stroked Duck’s head while she sobbed.

“Shh…it’ll be all right, Duck,” he said soothingly, burying his lips in her hair even as his own face was twisted in an expression of anguish and concern. As the remains of the garage continued to smolder, black smoke rose high into the sky, and the sound of more police and fire trucks joined the chorus of sirens.

Above the smoldering wreckage, the morning sun peeked through the thick black smoke, warming the two huddled figures with its comforting light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Gazze is Italian for “magpie”, another bird in the corvus genus, which includes crows and ravens.
> 
> * The “Boss of Bosses”, otherwise known as the “Godfather”, is actually a term used by the media, and not by the mobsters themselves. One who holds such a title is thought to be an extremely powerful figure within the mafia criminal world, someone who holds sway over numerous mafia families. 
> 
> * The Calumet River is part of the Calumet River system in South Chicago. The banks of the Calumet River were heavily industrialized in the 19th century, and continued into the 20th century, making it heavily polluted with industrial waste (i.e. oil, carcinogens, heavy metals, and other toxic compounds), and until 1922 human waste was also dumped into the river system until a canal was dug to divert the sewage to the Illinois River. Combined with the bone chilling temperatures of the Chicago winter, this was not a pleasant place for any living creature to take a dip in.
> 
> One more chapter to go! As always, big thanks to Tomoyo Ichijouji for her help with beta-ing! Happy New Year, everyone! :D


	23. Chapter 23

A Chicago police detective knocked on the door of an unmarked office.

Fakir, his hair still damp from the shower he’d taken earlier, opened the door and slipped out of the office quietly. Ignoring the fatigue in his body, he focused his attention on his colleague. “What is it?”

The Chicago detective guided Fakir into an empty interview room nearby where they each took a seat.

“Our boys are still sifting through the rubble of the garage, but I thought I’d give you an update, as well as ask you a question that I have,” the Chicago PD said as he pulled out a notebook from a pocket and flipped to the relevant page. “Our preliminary investigation suggests the explosion was caused by a propane container stored behind the garage. A lot of evidence was damaged as a result, but we recovered a body at the bottom of the crumpled structure.”

Fakir’s heart clenched at those words. “Have you identified who it is?”

The Chicago detective pursed his lips and gave a small shake of his head. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. The body was partially burned by the fire, and doing a fingerprint match will take time. However, we did recover a distinctive ring from the victim. Here,” he said, reaching into a coat pocket and took out a small evidence bag. “Can you identify it?”

Fakir accepted the envelope, and when he opened it, saw a gold and ruby ring with a raven insignia.

“This is Domenico Corvo’s ring.” Fakir handed the evidence back to the Chicago PD, who nodded. Even though he now knew Don Corvo was dead, the look of concern remained on Fakir’s face.

He said to his colleague, “Is that all? There was a second person who might’ve been there, and he’s…” Fakir paused. “…he’s Don Corvo’s right hand man, Principe." 

The Chicago detective shook his head. “I remember you mentioned him earlier, when you gave us your statement, but no. There’s only one body. We’re still going through the crime scene, so we may find clues to his whereabouts yet.”

“I see…” Fakir exhaled softly, feeling at once relieved and conflicted.

Don Corvo's death tolled the death knell of his organization. However, Mytho’s fate, and his whereabouts, now weighed heavily on Fakir’s mind.

_Did he get out somehow? Was he injured by the blast? Where is he right now?_

Fakir’s string of thoughts was interrupted by a knock from the door, making the two men in the room look up.

“Come in,” the Chicago PD responded. 

A young police officer opened the door and said, “Detective Romeiras? There’s a call outta New York City for you. It's someone who claims he’s the captain of the 53rd Precinct.”

Seeing Fakir was needed elsewhere, the Chicago detective rose from his chair. “We can continue with this tomorrow. It’s late now, so we’ve arranged hotel rooms for you and the gal. One of our boys will come find you in an hour or so and give the two of you a ride there.”

He tipped his hat towards Fakir, who nodded his appreciation before walking off with the young officer to a desk where a telephone awaited him. 

“Charon?” Fakir said into the microphone.

The noisy background made Fakir strain to hear Charon’s words, but he could clearly make out the concern in his supervisor’s voice. “Fakir? Are you all right? Is Miss Stannus alright?”

“We’re both fine.” Fakir’s eyes glanced at the room he had stepped out of earlier. “Duck is resting right now. Did you receive my telegram?”

“Yes, I received it shortly after lunch,” Charon answered. “I’m on a payphone in Grand Central Station right now, and will be getting on a train for Chicago within the hour. With the snow cleared, I should be there by Thursday at the latest.”

Fakir nodded. Knowing Charon’s time on the phone was limited, he gave the captain a quick rundown of what the Chicago PD had just told him.

“So Domenico Corvo, by all appearances, is dead,” Charon said with a sigh. “I was hoping we’d be able to prosecute him one day, but maybe…”

Here the captain closed his eyes and lightly shook his head. “What is done, is done.”

Opening his eyes, he spoke into the receiver, “By the way, Deputy Bookman came for his evidence yesterday. I told him you had discerned the clue hidden within it, but in the process the book was a little worse for wear.” 

“I don’t suppose he was happy about that,” Fakir said dryly. 

Here the captain smiled, and he answered, “No, he was not. He was furious that the book had been taken apart without consultation, and at what he called your ‘continued meddling’ in a case that you are no longer in charge of. He threatened to speak with the police commissioner to have you dismissed from the police force.”

Fakir rolled his eyes. Petty political revenge was the last thing he wanted to deal with after everything that had happened. “Does that mean I’m out of a job now?”

“I told him you’re currently in the Missing Persons division, and that the destruction of the book was pertinent to an urgent kidnapping case you were working on. You were just doing your job; nothing wrong with that,” Charon said lightly, as he recalled with a smile a livid and speechless Deputy Bookman storming out of his office. 

“Before the Deputy Marshall made good on his words, I spoke with the police commissioner,” the captain continued in a more serious tone. “I think I’ve convinced him that transferring you to Missing Persons was a great loss for the Homicide division. I cannot speak for you, but if you would like to return to Homicide, your old desk will be there, waiting for you.”

At this, Fakir couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Only if I get all of my paperwork back along with the desk.”

Charon let out a hearty laugh. “Yes, that can be arranged,” the older man said, unknowingly returning a smile.

Glancing at his wristwatch, Charon sobered when he saw he only had a few seconds left on his call. Speaking quickly, he said, “I think my time on the phone is running out. I will see you in Chicago. In the meantime, get some rest. And Fakir..." 

Here the captain paused, then said more softly, “Good work, son. I’m proud of you.”

Fakir smiled. “Thank you, Charon,” he answered, and with those words, the line went dead.

Placing the earpiece back on its hook, Fakir took a deep breath and rubbed his neck, still sore from his night spent sleeping inside a wooden crate.

Pondering what to do next, the thought of checking on the progress of the evidence analysis crossed his mind, but he had a feeling that sort of intrusion, especially by an out-of-state detective, would not be tolerated by the local police department.

 _Maybe it won’t be a bad idea to rest for a bit,_ Fakir contemplated as he returned to the small, unmarked office and softly opened the door.

In the relative quiet of the room, his eyes turned to Duck, who sat sleeping in a cushioned wooden chair. Her small frame was wrapped in an old quilt blanket one of the clerical staff had brought in after the two of them had washed away the grime from their dunking in the Calumet River. 

Duck’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of the door opening and shutting, and she spoke with sleep heavy on her tongue. “Fakir? Is everything all right? Any news on Mytho and Rue?”

Fakir paused. Even though he had seen with his own eyes how Duck treated both Mytho and Rue as friends, a part of him still marveled at her willingness to embrace them even though they had been responsible for endangering her life.

Pulling up the sagging quilt back over Duck’s shoulders, Fakir reassured her, “Everything’s fine. So far there’s no trace of Mytho or Rue, and no one can say what had happened to them, or where they went. But there are good people working here, and we’ll all keep looking.”

Taking a seat in the empty chair next to Duck, Fakir said, “We’ll be here for a little bit longer, then in about half an hour or so they’ll take us to a hotel where we’ll spend the night. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you when we’re ready to go.”

“Oh…okay, then…” Duck sighed softly. To Fakir’s surprise, Duck, worn out from everything that had happened to her, didn’t argue. She leaned her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and quickly fell back asleep.

Fakir tensed, but stopped himself from flinching away from Duck. Instead, he took a deep breath and tilted his head back against the wall to look across the room at the window. 

Outside, the sun had already set, and a tiny stripe of darkening sky was visible through a break in the forest of buildings. To Fakir, the time between today’s sunrise and sunset seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye. 

During those few hours, he had rescued Duck, found out the identity of his parents’ killers, and witnessed the downfall of the Corvo crime family. The personal grudge he held against Don Corvo and his league of criminals was avenged. He had fulfilled his ultimate goal for becoming a police detective; but, what would he do now that it was done? 

Fakir frowned as he suddenly realized that he—just like Mytho—had never truly contemplated what he would do once his goal had been achieved. He had been so focused on chasing after his parents’ killers that he had never given any thought to what would happen after Don Corvo’s organization collapsed. 

A light, snoring noise next to him pulled Fakir’s thoughts away from his reveries. Looking at the sleeping girl next to him, Fakir’s eyes softened.

 _Stupid_ , a voice in his mind chastised. _The answer is right here, in front of you._

With the dissolution of the Corvo gang, a chapter of his life had come to an end, but his career as a police officer was far from over. He would continue to protect those around him for as long as he was able.

Fakir took another deep breath and, gingerly, rested his cheek against the top of Duck’s head. Closing his eyes to the bright incandescent light of the room, he allowed sleep to overtake him.

* * *

The gray veil of winter eventually lifted, giving way to the colors of spring. Bright green leaves, with drops of rain still clinging to their surface from the April shower the night before, waved gently in the breeze. In the damp but snow-free streets outside the 53rd Precinct, Fakir walked up to the familiar building and made his way inside. 

Walking past the brass “Homicide” division plaque, Fakir nodded his greeting to the other members of the division. When he finally reached his desk, he set down his coat and placed his badge, with its sparkling brass eagle and shield, on top of the desk.* He surveyed the mess strewn across its surface. 

Unlike the clean desk that had greeted him after he returned from sick leave, Fakir’s desk was now pilled high with stacks of papers and files. However, this did not seem to bother the detective one bit, as Fakir hung his coat and hat and sat down to work.

Just as Fakir picked up the pen from the top of the paper work he had left half finished the day before, the telephone next to him began to ring. Irritated by the disruption, without putting down his pen, Fakir picked up the black earpiece and answered tersely, “Yes?”

“Sergeant Romeiras? I have a Mr. Autor Brahms on the line for you.”

At the sound of Autor’s name, the pen in Fakir’s hand went still. With a grimace, he said, “Put him through.”

While he waited for the connection, Fakir’s gaze drifted to a half-folded sheet of newsprint that had been trapped in the middle of a pile of papers. It was a copy of Autor’s exposé.

In it, the journalist had laid out the Corvo gang’s various sordid deeds using the research and evidence he had gathered on his own from past news reports and interviews. Published only weeks after Domenico Corvo’s dramatic death made headlines across the country, the exposé had made Autor—quite literally overnight—a hero in the public’s eye.

But Fakir knew this one article was not the end. In his article, Autor had cited the fact that the investigation into Domenico Corvo’s organization was ongoing, and so he was not at liberty to reveal everything that he knew just yet. That suggested the reporter was intent on telling the full story of how Don Corvo met his end, a story that would surely make front page material again once it was published.

The prospect of that being made public made Fakir uneasy as the phone line cracked to life with Autor’s voice.

“Hello? Fakir?” 

Fakir leaned back in his chair, and with his brows in a deep frown, demanded, “What do you want?”

A huff came from the other end, and with indignation, Autor said, “Not even a simple greeting! I see your arrogant attitude hasn’t changed. And to think, I was going to offer you some interesting information…”

“Information? About what?” Fakir’s back straightened. This wasn’t what he had expected to hear from Autor, and as a police officer, the prospect of getting potentially useful information got his attention.

“…But since you asked me what I wanted, then I suppose I will go first then, and ask something of you,” Autor replied smugly, and Fakir stifled a groan.

 _I knew it!_ The detective thought as he shook his head. “Fine. What do you want to know?” 

“I heard from a fellow in the bureau that the girl who used to work in your office, Malen, had entered a plea deal. The details of the plea deal haven't been released yet, but as lead detective, I was wondering if you might know something about it.”

Fakir pursed his lips. Looking around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear, he said in a low voice, “The DA and her lawyer agreed on it yesterday, and settled on a two year suspended prison sentence.”

“That seems awfully lenient for someone who was complicit with criminals.”

“She was coerced, Autor,” Fakir stressed, remembering the tearful look on Malen’s face when he had seen her after she had confessed her actions to Charon. “If she didn’t agree to work for the Corvos they would’ve probably threatened to kill her father. Charon spoke with the DA and the judge on the case, to make it clear to them that Malen was pressured by the Corvo into shuttling information. The judge agreed with Charon’s opinion, but the DA was harder to convince. In the end, they settled on the suspended sentence. I’m pretty sure once the probation period passes, the sentence will be dismissed.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Autor said as he jotted that down on his notepad. When the scratching sound of Autor’s pen came to a stop, the reporter asked, “And what about the autopsy report on Domenico Corvo? Did you see those?”

“No,” Fakir lied, hoping that would dam Autor’s questions.

That reply however, failed to fool Autor, who said pointedly, “I called the medical examiner’s office yesterday for the report, but he told me the state had ordered for it to be sealed. I know that report had been made, Fakir, and as lead detective, there’s no possible way you had not seen it!” 

At this Fakir rolled his eyes. “This is an active investigation; I’m not at liberty—”

“Don’t give me that spiel. You really believe I'll fall for that?”

Fakir groaned loudly in exasperated. “Damn it, Autor!” the detective growled at the phone, “I can’t just go telling people things over the phone like this!” 

“Fine then,” Autor’s cool, nonchalant reply took Fakir by surprise. But he was even more surprised by what the reporter said next. “When are you off this week?” 

“What? Why?”

“There’s a deli near my place where we can meet. What days are you free?”

“Autor—” Fakir began, but Autor cut him off.

“We can meet in-person, and I can show you something that I’ve found.”

Fakir raised an eyebrow distrustfully. “Is this the ‘information’ you were talking about earlier?” 

“Perhaps.”

Fakir exhaled a long sigh. As much as he was tempted to just hang up on the conceited reporter, he couldn’t help but wonder what it was that Autor had uncovered.

Fakir slumped back into his chair and glanced at the calendar pinned to the wall next to him. “I’m off Friday, Saturday, and Sunday afternoon this week.”

“An extra half-day off? Is this a benefit afforded to sergeants in the New York Police Department?”

Fakir tsked at Autor’s sarcastic ribbing. “Sunday is Easter, and I’m going to a family dinner at my cousin’s house with—”

When Fakir’s voice suddenly stopped midsentence, Autor, sitting in his office, raised an eyebrow. After a pause, he smirked knowingly. “Let me guess, with a certain neighbor of yours?”

Fakir cleared his throat, but said nothing.

Autor chuckled. “Very well, I will meet you at Ben’s Delicatessen, on 3rd Avenue in Yorkville. Ask anyone in that area and they ought to be able to point you there.”

After arranging a time for their meeting, Autor hung up and Fakir was left wondering what the reporter was planning.

 _Guess I’ll find out when I see him_ , Fakir frowned as he made a note of their meeting on his planner.

* * *

The deli that Fakir found was buzzing with activity on a warm Saturday afternoon. Once he’d squeezed himself past the two elderly gentlemen chatting and blocking the front door, it took a moment for Fakir to find Autor, sitting in a secluded corner, a half-finished sandwich on his plate and perusing the day’s newspaper.

Approaching the reporter, Fakir dropped his hat on the red and white checkered tablecloth. Autor’s eyes darted up but said nothing as Fakir pulled back the chair opposite him and sat down.

Shuffling the newspaper in his hand, Autor said noncommittally, “If you’re hungry I recommend the pastrami sandwich. I can vouch that it’s the best you’ll find in Yorkville.” 

Knowing Autor was leading him on, Fakir cocked an eyebrow at the bespectacled reporter. “You hauled me all the way out here just to recommend a sandwich to me?” 

“No,” Autor said, folding the paper in his hand and laid it down on the table, “but that statement is true. It’s made with my grandmother’s own recipe.”

At this Fakir huffed, “Don’t tell me this deli is run by your relatives?” After a pause, something dawned on Fakir and he said with surprise, “Wait, you’re Jewish?” 

Now it was Autor’s turn to cock an eyebrow at Fakir, and the reporter said primly, “On my mother’s side, yes.”

“I thought you were… oh, never mind!” Fakir waved his hand dismissively.

As someone who was of mixed ancestry himself, who was he to comment on Autor’s family history? Nonetheless, it took Fakir by surprise to know he had something in common with Autor beyond their professional interests.

“None of that matters,” Fakir shrugged, “especially in this city.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Autor huffed. “And there are other advantages to meeting here besides the food…”

Autor paused when a waitress with carefully pinned hair walked up to them. Resting one hand on the back of Autor’s chair, she greeted him cheerfully. “Oh, so he’s the friend you’ve been waiting for, bubbeleh?”*

Looking to Fakir, she said with a smile, “What’s your name, dear?”

“Fakir Romeiras, Ma’am,” Fakir nodded politely at the woman.

“He’s…a colleague, Aunt Judith,” Autor replied, trying his best to look dignified in front of his gregarious relative.

“Well, friend or colleague, he looks like a nice, mensch kinda fella,” Autor’s aunt smiled approvingly at her nephew and Fakir. “I’ll leave you boys alone so you can continue with your conversation. Just let me know if you want anything to nosh on!” 

Once Judith turned away to talk to other customers, Autor cleared his throat and looked back at Fakir, “Aunt Judith is a little chatty, but both she and Uncle Benjamin are discrete people; neither of them will gossip about what they overhear in their shop, especially when family members are involved.”

Fakir nodded. As Autor took out a small notepad and pen, still feeling a little taken aback by the insight into Autor’s family, the detective said quietly, “So what do you want to know about the autopsy report?”

“What was Domenico Corvo’s cause of death? I know there was a fire and an explosion afterward, but were either of those what killed him?”

Fakir leaned forward in his chair, and with his elbows resting on the table, whispered, “No. When they found him, his body was intact, and there was no ash in his lungs. However, the coroner found a single gunshot wound to the chest that had pierced his heart.”

Autor tapped his notepad contemplatively. “That means he was dead before the placed caught fire then? Could it be that the person who fired the bullet was Myt…” 

“We don’t know for sure,” Fakir interrupted Autor’s half-spoken question. “We found a bullet, but without the gun that it was fired from, forensically we can’t identify who fired the shot. The Chicago PDs did find a partially burnt wool coat, which looked like the one Mytho had worn, but other than that there’s no direct evidence that he was the one who fired the fatal shot.”

“And what about Mytho’s whereabouts?” Autor said softly, and he could see Fakir tense at the mention of that name.

Shaking his head as his answer, Fakir said nothing.

Autor looked thoughtfully at Fakir and the conflicting emotions on the detective’s face. Wordlessly, Autor reached into his coat and took out a folded piece of newsprint before placing it in the center of the table.

Surprised by the gesture, Fakir opened the folded square of paper and saw a headline that read: “Truth Behind Actress’ Retirement Revealed?”

Below the bold type heading was a black and white photograph. The photo appeared to have been taken from a distance, and showed the back of a woman walking with a cane and her male companion as they walked toward an ocean liner. The hats they wore obscured the top of their faces, but even so, to Fakir’s eyes, their features were strikingly familiar.

Fakir’s heart raced as he skimmed the two short paragraphs below the photo. The author of the article claimed to have seen the retired Hollywood actress Odile Legnani board the RMS Empress of Asia at the port of Vancouver, Canada.* 

She was seen using a cane and accompanied by an unknown male companion. The report speculated, in sensational language, that perhaps a terrible accident had befallen the actress, that this was the true cause of her retirement, and not due to a fall out with movie studio executives as was previously reported in the press.

The writer of the article claimed the mysterious gentleman seen with her was a wealthy lover who was spiriting her away to the Orient, eloping with her to a far off land where no one would disturb their amorous escapade.

There was no word on which port of call the actress and her companion were sailing to, and other than the name of the ship, no other solid information was presented in the article. 

Lifting his eyes away from the paper, Autor answered the question that was foremost on Fakir’s mind. “Someone in my bureau showed this to me after seeing it in the New York Daily Mirror earlier this week.* He knew I had interviewed Odile Legnani before, and he thought I’d be interested in the story. Given the Daily Mirror’s reputation, I’m skeptical about the validity of the written article, but it’s possible that the people in the photograph are indeed Rue and Mytho.”

Fakir said nothing as he held the news clipping in front of him, his brows furrowed in an intense gaze. Then, much to Autor’s surprise, Fakir lowered his eyes and pushed the article across the table towards him.

“You’re not interested in catching Mytho?” Autor said, astonished.

Taking a deep breath, Fakir said evenly, “No. Principe is dead, along with Don Corvo.”

“But he’s—” Autor stopped himself. Realizing after a second what Fakir meant, he nodded, picking up the news clipping and returning it to his pocket.

Once the clipping was stowed away, Fakir sighed and said aloud, “Is that all?”

“Yes, for now,” Autor replied.

Hearing this, Fakir moved to stand up.

As he pushed the chair back and reached for his hat, Autor said quietly, his voice just audible above the background noise of the busy deli, “Fakir, I’ve begun writing the second half of my exposé, chronicling the downfall of the Corvo clan.” 

At those words, Fakir’s hand froze, and he looked down wearily at the reporter, who continued, “I dislike media censorship. Truth is of the utmost importance for journalists, no matter how ugly or uncomfortable those truths might be. However,” Autor touched his glasses and looked Fakir in the eyes, “that does not mean that I am insensitive.”

Sitting with his hands clasped together on the table, Autor said solemnly, “I know how much the Corvos have hurt you and your family. I won’t cause you any more pain by dragging your past into all this. But there is one person whose name I feel compelled to include in my story. She is, after all, the catalyst that triggered the downfall of the Corvo clan. I feel I should consult you on this matter before I began writing.”

“Don Corvo is dead, Autor. As such, the cases against him have closed, and she won’t have to testify as a witness anymore.” Fakir clenched his fists, his voice growing in intensity. “She’s finally gotten back the life she had before this whole thing started. Revealing her identity now would only endanger her again!”

“I know that! But she’s too important in all this for me to leave her role out, Fakir!” Autor argued. “I have to give her a name of some sort, even if it’s not her real one.”

After a paused, Fakir picked up his hat and said thoughtfully, “In that case, call her ‘the witness’. It’s factual without giving away her identity.”

“But that’s rather bland, don’t you think?” Autor folded his arms across his chest. “It doesn’t sound evocative at all.”

Fakir huffed and doffed his hat, turning to leave. Before walking away from the table, he paused and looked back at Autor. “In that case, how about ‘a most uncommon witness’?”

“’An uncommon witness’?” Autor touched his chin as he mulled over the suggestion. Slowly, a grin rose at the corner of his lips, and he exclaimed, “Yes, that has a catchy ring to it!”

Seeing Autor mentally reoccupied, Fakir slipped away.

Making his way back to his apartment, Fakir paused outside Duck’s door. He knew she was gone for the day, having a day out on the town with her friends Lilie and Pique. But the news Autor had brought weighed heavily on his mind as he entered his apartment and opened his bedroom window.

Duck would want to know what had happened to Mytho and Rue, and he would have an opportunity to tell her the news tomorrow, when they would be walking over to Rachel’s house together.

But a part of Fakir wondered if it was better to never bring their names up in conversation again. He didn't want to remind her of all the fear and uncertainty she had gone through. The thought of her hurting, even from reliving her own memories, pained Fakir more than any physical injury he had endured.

Yet he also knew Duck desperately wanted to know what had happened to the two people she considered friends. He could not simply pretend that Duck never met Rue, that her mother Elsa was never Mytho’s ballet instructor. It would be akin to disavowing his own boyhood memories of Mytho. Whether he liked it or not, the threads of their fates had been intertwined, and even though they had each gone their own ways, such history wasn’t something he could erase.

A light spring breeze wafted through the opened window into Fakir’s room, gently stirring the loose strands of hair above his eyes. Raising his hand to push his bangs back in place, Fakir’s eyes paused on the pale scar marking the skin on the back of his right hand.

_Time heals all wounds._

For a long time, Fakir had refused to believe in those words; the anger and hatred in his heart had refused to give the wounds he carried a chance to heal. Back then, he would’ve done what he thought was right, regardless of anyone else's opinions or desires.

But that old self had also been blinded by his single-mindedness, and it had nearly cost him Duck’s life.

Fakir lowered his hand and looked up at the bright azure sky outlined between the rows of brick buildings. Another spring breeze brushed past him, plucking dried and decayed leaves from the year before from the thin branches of trees, making room for new leaves to sprout and grow.

 _I'll tell her about Rue and Mytho,_ Fakir decided firmly. _It would be selfish of me to withhold that information from Duck_. _She has a right to know the fate of the people she cares about._

With his mind thus made up, Fakir made a mental note to pick up a copy of the Daily Mirror the next time he passed by a newsstand.

Turning his gaze back to the interior of his room, Fakir’s eyes fell on the Victrola phonograph sitting in its corner of his room. Picking out a record, Fakir wondered idly where Mytho and Rue were now.

 _They could be at the ends of the Earth right now_ , Fakir thought with a small smile as he wound the phonograph and placed the needle on the record.

As the familiar piano music began to play, Fakir knew one thing for certain: Rue and Mytho both had, at long last, escaped the long shadow that had hung over them and dictated the direction of their lives. They could go anywhere now, because the heavy burden of their former identities had been shed. They were, at last, free.

* * *

Tiny droplets of water kicked up by the bow of the ship landed lightly on the skin of the pale haired man as he looked out at the shores of the foreign land stretched out before him. A smattering of wooden junks dotted the water’s surface as seagulls soared overhead, their wings casting fleeting shadows over the polished deck of the ocean liner.

Other passengers stood to the side, taking in the strange new sights and the warm April sun. Carried in by the wind, the sounds of their laughter, the cries of the gulls, and snatches of conversations in a foreign language buzzed in the background, below the low hum in the man’s ears. The hum acted like an invisible wall, aiding the man in nursing his solitary thoughts while his hand cradled a small jewelry box in his coat pocket.

The veil of noise draped over his thoughts was suddenly pulled open by a familiar voice at his side.

“Siegfried?" 

“Oh!” the man’s golden eyes blinked at the raven-haired woman, her slender hand on his arm. The surprise in his eyes turned to warmth as he smiled teasingly. “Good afternoon, ‘Ms. Brunhilde’.” *

Leaning against her new walking cane, the corner of Rue’s lips responded with a smile. “Good afternoon to you as well, ‘Mr. Siegfried’,” she replied gamely.

Nestling herself next to him, Rue’s expression grew serious as her eyes looked with concern at her beau. “I was calling for you from across the deck, but you didn’t respond. Is it because you’re not accustomed to that name, or is it because of your hearing?”

“Both, probably.” Mytho replied, taking his hand out of his pocket and wrapping it around Rue’s waist. “It’s been three months now. The doctor in Toronto said the tinnitus ought to improve with time, but it doesn’t seem like it has improved much in the last few months.”

Rue sighed. Glancing at the other passengers to make sure she would not be overheard, she said, “If only you had been further away from that explosion, then…”*

As Rue trailed off, Mytho drew her close. “Maybe…but there was something I had to do…” he said, recalling the end of that violent morning in Chicago.

When Mytho pulled the trigger, the floor around him simultaneously lit up in flames. The fire leapt up and ignited the trail of gasoline on his suit trousers. Tossing his gun aside, Mytho managed to pull his jacket off and smother the flame on his trouser leg. Luckily for him, the woolen material of his clothes did not burn readily, and Mytho was able to extinguish the fire without injury.

However, while Mytho was preoccupied, the fire inside the garage had grown, fueled by the various oils and other flammable materials in the building. Mytho scrambled outside just as the flames shot up and fanned out across the ceiling.

Breathing heavily, a metallic glint caught Mytho’s eyes, and he saw it was the pistol he had tossed aside earlier. Bending down to reach for his gun, his eyes came to rest on the motionless body of Don Corvo by the doorway.

The monster was dead, and both he and Rue were now free. But even as the police sirens wailed and the threat of being discovered loomed ever closer, Mytho knew that another monster—one whose hands had slain the fiend that was Domenico Corvo—still lived.

This last monster too must now be slain. Glancing at the singed jacket still in his hand, the once pristine material now mottled with soot, Mytho closed his eyes.

Taking a moment to steady the pounding adrenaline in his veins, Mytho recalled the sacrament taught to him and the other children by their caretakers at the St. Vitus orphanage. 

“Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”*

The hot wind kicked up by the blaze swept past Mytho, its blistering heat caressing his skin as the wood in the building cracked and popped.

Accepting that as a response, Mytho opened his eyes, his clear golden eyes reflecting the light of the pyre before him.

“Amen.”

With as much strength as he could muster, Mytho hurtled the jacket into the blaze. At the same time, the structure began to creak and groan. The ritual completed, Mytho turned and dashed away from the fire. 

But he had not gotten very far when, without warning, a loud explosion rocked the building, disintegrating it and sending a shockwave in all directions. Mytho was knocked to his feet.

His memories of what happened next were somewhat hazy, but despite being momentarily stunned and his ears and chest in pain from the blast, Mytho somehow managed to pull himself back onto his feet and stagger the rest of the way to the boat where Rue waited.

Though they were both in pain and injured, they managed to stay hidden in the boat, underneath the cover of a large drainage pipe until evening. When night fell, Mytho led Rue to a car he had previously stashed with cash and supplies half a mile away in a different warehouse.

After bribing a small town doctor outside Chicago into treating and properly dressing Rue’s leg, the two of them crossed the border into Canada, first to Toronto, then after acquiring the necessary forged documents, made their way to Vancouver, where they decided to sail for Shanghai: a metropolis with a large Western presence where they would be able to blend in, but foreign enough that they would have little fear of being recognized by someone on the streets.* 

As the ship now drew closer to their destination, the crashing of the waves against the ship’s bow and the cry of the gulls competed with the ever present ringing in Mytho’s ears. Yet the former mobster seemed unfazed by this handicap.

Breathing in the salty scent of the sea, Mytho smiled, “At this point I’m not sure if my hearing will ever recover. But after what I’ve done,” he paused, “this is a small price to pay.”

Rue looked down at her legs, now covered in dark stockings to conceal the scar on her calf. Her grip on the handle of the walking stick tightened, and she said somberly, “Both of us have been branded for the trespasses we’ve committed in the past,” Rue said, frowning. “With this injury, I don’t think it will be possible for me to ever dance again.”

Mytho kissed Rue’s forehead. The gesture eased away some of the gloom clouding Rue’s thoughts.

Resting her cheek against Mytho’s chest, she could hear the beating of his heart and the breath in his lungs as he said quietly, “Even though we carry the scars of our pasts, it shouldn’t stop us from starting a new future, Rue. The most important thing is that he’s gone now, and we are free.”

Rue nodded against Mytho’s chest. Shifting her eyes towards her love, a hopeful smile appeared on her lips as she said, “I may not be able to dance anymore, but with the money we brought with us…maybe I can start a dance school here. Maybe that will be my true calling; not as a princess, a ballerina, or an actress, but as a dance studio operator.”

Mytho chuckled softly. “It would be a fitting career for you, I think,” he said sincerely as he gently touched the jewelry box in his pocket, and the images of two red haired women and their kind smiles and blue eyes, flinted across his mind.

Turning his thoughts back to the present, they watched as the outline of the Bund came into view, and with it, the promise of a land filled with unknown challenges and opportunities.

“Our future is in our hands now, and we can be anything we want to be.”

* * *

The bright Sunday afternoon sun warmed Duck, dressed in her Sunday best, as she stood waiting outside the building she shared with Fakir.

Looking down at her watch, Duck frowned. “Fakir’s usually so punctual; what’s holding him up today? At this rate, we’re gonna be late for Easter dinner with Rachel,” the pointe shoe shop girl whined.

As she shuffled her feet impatiently, Duck looked up when she saw a familiar figure jogging up towards her, a rolled up newspaper in hand.

Once Fakir was within hearing distance, Duck puffed up her cheeks and said to him, “What took you so long? Rachel said she would show me how to make folar bread. We’re gonna be late if we don’t leave soon!”*

“I had some work I needed to wrap up at the precinct,” Fakir replied, catching his breath in between sentences. “But you’re not the most punctual person anyway, so she probably expects us to be late.” 

“Why, you! I will have you know that I was on time for work this whole month!” Duck shouted indignantly.

“And that’s only because you finally bought a new alarm clock the month before,” Fakir said dryly.

“Oh, never mind!” Duck threw up her hands, “Why do I have to put up with a rude, two-bit gumshoe like you all the time?!”

Just as Duck was about to turn her heels to leave, she paused when Fakir unexpectedly held the newspaper in his hand out to her.

“I thought you might want to see this,” he said simply.

Glancing at the newspaper, Duck’s peppy demeanor faded when she looked back up and saw the serious expression on Fakir’s face. When he gave no further explanation, a mystified Duck accepted the newspaper from Fakir’s hand.

Scanning the page held opened to her, Duck’s eyes widened when it caught on the title, “Truth Behind Actress’ Retirement Revealed?”

Duck quickly read, then reread, the article, her fingers gripping the paper so tightly that it bunched and wrinkled in her hands.

When she looked up her face broke into a bright smile. “So that means they’re both alive, then?” she exclaimed.

Fakir nodded. “I don’t know where they’re going, or how accurate this article is, but by and large, they seem to be doing all right—”

Before Fakir could finish his sentence, Duck, without warning, launched herself at him and hugged him tightly.

“Duck!” Fakir stuttered, his flushed face turning even redder when passersby glanced their way. “What are you doing!?”

“Oh, thank you, Fakir!” Duck spoke into the lapel of his jacket. Pulling away, she wiped away at the tears that had formed at the edges of her eyes. “I was so worried about them! To know that they’re both alive…it means so much to me!”

Seeing Duck’s tears of joy, the question from yesterday resurfaced in Fakir’s mind. Even though he knew her tears were from relief, Fakir couldn’t help but wonder if Duck would be happier to have never been put through any of this.

That question found its way to his tongue as he spoke hesitantly, “Duck…have you…have you ever wished that none of this had happened?”

Duck blinked at him in surprise.

Looking away from her, Fakir continued, “You nearly lost everything you had ever known, and your life was in danger at every turn. Don’t you ever wish that none of it had happened?”

Here Fakir paused and as he formed the next sentence in his mind, a lump rose up in his throat, but he would not let it stop him from finishing his thought. “Don’t you wish you had never met Mytho, or Rue, or me?”

Duck sniffled, and rubbed her nose as she looked down at the pavement. Even though Fakir had anticipated her answer to his question, he still found himself holding his breath when she finally answered. 

“Yes, I did,” Duck said slowly. “In the beginning especially, I wished that I had never walked down that alley. I didn’t want anything to do with this case at all! Even now it’s still scary to think back on that night, and I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as the night when those two thugs tried to kidnap me on my way back home, or when I was brought into that warehouse in Chicago.” 

Her gaze rose from the floor to rest back on Fakir, and much to Fakir’s amazement, he found a faint smile on her lips. “But in the end, against all odds, somehow it all worked out.” 

Folding her hands behind her back, she mused, “It’s true that if none of this had happened, I would’ve never met the three of you, but looking back on it now, after I’ve gotten to know each of you… I don't regret what happened.

"It probably sounds strange to say this, but ever since I met her, I always felt like Rue was a good person. Even Mytho, once I got to know him better, I could see his true character, his innate kindness and gentleness, through the mask he was forced to wear as Principe.”

Meeting Fakir’s gaze, Duck smiled sincerely. “And as for you, Fakir, you were always looking out for me, and you made me feel safe. You protected me, and I am so grateful for that. So I’m really glad I met you; if it weren’t for you, I’m not sure I'd be here today.”

At those words a feeling swelled in his chest until it threatened to lift him off his feet. Swallowing thickly, Fakir found his cheeks once again beginning to flush as he was unable to maintain eye contact with the bright, smiling blue-eyed girl in front of him.

“I-idiot…” Fakir stammered awkwardly, “as long as you’ll let me, I’ll always be here to protect you…”

Flustered, Fakir's mind frantically sought a distraction to change the topic of their conversation. He found it when he glanced down at his watch and saw what time it was.

“Damn! We really _are_ going to be late if we don’t leave now!” Fakir shouted, aghast at how long their conversation had taken. Reaching forward, he took Duck’s hand. “Come on, we need to get going!” 

“But you said Rachel wouldn’t mind if we were a little late!” Duck whined as she curled her fingers over Fakir’s hand.

“I did, but you just said you want to see how Rachel makes folar, right? She usually makes it first, so that it will be ready before dinner. We’ll have to hurry if you want to see how she makes it.”

“Oh! All right, then! I hear it’s really delicious, and I love bread! I was thinking I might even try making it myself some time if it’s not too complicated.”

“You really are a duck, aren’t you? Do you eat anything else _besides_ bread?” 

“I do too! Let’s see, I like greens, fruits, potatoes, and fish, but I don’t like eggs or chicken or…” 

Walking together, hand in hand, the two of them continued to banter as they traveled down the street. Around them, fresh green leaves swayed in the light breeze, welcoming the sunlight and all the promises and hopes of new beginnings.

* * *

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In the New York City Police Department, officers are given badges based on their rank. A detective has a badge with a medallion design, while a sergeant—the rank Fakir was promoted to a few chapters ago—has a shield and eagle design.
> 
> * “Bubbeleh”, “mensch” and “nosh” are all Yiddish words. “Bubbeleh” is a term of endearment, like the English word “honey” or “dear”. “Mensch” is the term for a gentlemanly, honest person, while “nosh” means to snack or nibble on something. I felt it would be remissive to not touch on the Jewish community in New York City in the 19th and early 20th century, so I apologize if the revelation of Autor’s German-Jewish American family heritage felt a little tacked on at the last minute, but I couldn’t find a good opportunity to bring it up earlier in the story. 
> 
> * The RMS Empress of Asia was an ocean liner operated by the Canadian Pacific Steamships Company. Built in 1913, it sailed between Canada and the Far East. During the two World Wars, it served as a troopship, and was sunk in 1942 by Japanese bombers near the Sultan Shoal near Singapore. 
> 
> * The New York Daily Mirror was a tabloid newspaper published from 1924 until 1963. It focused on sensational news, including scandals. To quote Wikipedia, the paper’s management “estimated that its content was 10% news and 90% entertainment.”
> 
> * The name “Siegfried” is a reference to the canon Mythos’ real name of Prince Siegfried, which is the name of the prince from “Swan Lake”. However, “Siegfried” is also the name of a well-known opera by Richard Wagner, and in the opera the titular character marries a valkyrie by the name of Brunhilde. I realize Rue could’ve also gone by the alias of Odette, but since she’s already publicly known as Odile, that alias wouldn’t have been a very good one, in my opinion. 
> 
> * Tinnitus (ringing of the ears) is a condition commonly caused by noise-induced hearing loss. In Mytho’s case, he was too close to the garage when the explosion occurred, and it damaged his hearing. I wanted to include this detail not only because it’s a little more realistic to real-world circumstances (contrary to what Hollywood would have us believe, where the hero dives to the ground during an explosion and comes out completely unscathed), but because I feel like after everything Mytho has done as Principe, it would be unfair for him to walk away into the sunset with no karmic retribution.
> 
> * The prayer that Mytho recited is part of the last rites performed for the dying in accordance with Catholic traditions. In this case, the act of reciting the last rite is symbolic, as the Principe part of Mytho’s identity is forever put to rest.
> 
> * For those of you wondering why I chose Shanghai of all cities for Mytho and Rue to quite literally sail into the sunset to, there’s three reasons for this. The first being that in the early 20th century it was (and very much still is) a global metropolis, so two Westerners could live in this city and not look out of place. The second reason is a little more personal, as my family was originally from that region of China, and I’ve visited the city a few times, so I wanted to make a small nod to my heritage with this reference. 
> 
> The third reason is…well, a little more silly. In the 1980’s there was a very popular Hong Kong TV drama called “The Bund”. The show was set in 1920’s Shanghai, the same era as this fanfic, and revolved around a man who worked for the Shanghai underworld, played by the actor Chow Yun-fat (you might recognize him from his roles as Li Mu-bai from “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”, and Sao Feng in “Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End”, to name but a few). The show—and its theme song—were hugely popular in the Chinese-speaking world in the 80’s and 90’s, and despite not having watched the TV show myself, I can’t help but think about the parallels between the two stories. Thus, I thought it would be fun to make an indirect nod to it here, in the final chapter.
> 
> * Folar is a type of Portuguese bread made during Easter. Depending on the region and recipe, the bread can be savory or sweet. It’s also commonly served with boiled eggs, which serve as a symbol of rebirth. This last detail might’ve eluded Duck though.
> 
> I have finally made it to the end of this story! Looking back, I really didn’t think I would make it to this point when I began writing this story in 2009. It’s been seven years (just thinking about that number scares me a little) and I want to thank you, my readers, for following this story through to the end. I also want to give a huge thank you to Tomoyo Ichijouji, my friend and beta-reader who’s not only edited the story, but provided valuable feedback which allowed me to create a much more polish story than what I could’ve accomplished on my own.
> 
> And with that, thank you once again for reading! Until next time!


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